Harry Potter and the Master of Tropes
by Zeittergiest
Summary: This story is a direct response to every trope I could find in both canon and the more popular stories here. I take them head on and turn the tropes about for my amusement, and, hopefully, yours. Harry P./Luna L. Dudley D./Hermione G. (light on the romance, 'cause tropes)
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

He woke up moments before his alarm would have awoken him and looked over to the readout: 7:00 AM it read. He had better hurry up and get his "family" their breakfast made, if he didn't, there would surely be a beating waiting in the wings. It didn't do to keep his cousin from his morning meal.

Today was a special day. His birthday. Not that it mattered, it hadn't been celebrated in a decade. He didn't particularly care, though, as it allowed him to stay out of the path of his cousin for another day.

Still, it's not every day you turn eleven. _Happy birthday to me_. He thought to himself as he rose from his bed. As he stood, he hit his head on the ceiling of his "room." Closet, actually. Ever since Harry Potter had arrived on the Dursley's doorstep he hadn't rated a real bedroom. No, the closet under the stairs had ever been his domain. That isn't to say there wasn't a perfectly good spare for him to use, however, storage for his cousin's disused toys and other accoutrements of entertainment was deemed a more appropriate use for the room.

He pulled the string that turned on the solitary, ancient and inconsistent incandescent bulb, taking care to gently remove the spider that had made its way from the ceiling of the cupboard. He had ever treated his friends with the utmost care and gentleness, for the spiders of his closet were his sole companions. His cousin had made sure of that.

His cousin, for lack of a better word, was a bully. His vast size - a result of his coddling at the hands of the head of the Dursley household - made him particularly well suited to that particular pastime. Not that he was well suited for anything else, his brain was sorely underdeveloped.

Casting his filial musings aside, he dressed in ratty hand-me-downs that he had received by way of his cousin outgrowing them several years prior. They were ill-fitting coming, as they were, from such a… large individual. He had never been particularly big, rather, classically athletic: tall, broad shouldered, and narrow-waisted, his athleticism a result of many confrontations with his cousin and his gang.

Properly attired, he exited his sanctuary in favor of the harsh reality of his life outside the cupboard under the stairs - his cousin and his eternally enabling parents. He went into the kitchen before anyone else had made their way down for their morning meal. He had been doing this ever since he was tall enough to see over the stovetop - no, before then, even. He had the burns and belt-marks to prove it. Now, though, as he had begun to hit his growth spurt, he was easily able to prepare a classic English breakfast with the quiet economy of much-practiced motion.

He had just plated the eggs, after already laying out steaks and hash, and was pouring orange juice when he heard someone tromping ungracefully down the stairs. _Great, the lump's up and raring to go._ He carefully schooled his features to belie the animosity he had for the boy who had ruined his whole life.

Before his day could preemptively be ruined by his bloated cousin, the Dursley matriarch, Petunia Dursley, a waifish, boney-faced woman with a perpetual grimace and bags under her eyes, made her way into the dining room. This effectively quelled all thought his cousin had of starting trouble so early. She began her daily contribution to the morning repast - making coffee. He had been made to do that as well once he began his duties as breakfast chef, but, unlike his skills with eggs and fried hash, he was never able to nail down the coffee making process, the brew always ended up boiling away, no matter how watchful he had been.

There were other odd occurrences that plagued the denizen of the cupboard under the stairs at number 4 Privet Drive. These episodes always corresponded to a situation in which he was under great stress. The first he could remember was the first time his cousin's gang had caught him. He managed to escape their clutches, but, when he ran away, he was cornered and was suddenly on the roof of a nearby school building. He had tried to explain it away, but it still earned him a beating. Not his first, nor his last.

His reverie was broken as a tall, spare man limped his way down the stairs. He had an odd, waddling gait that would have been more appropriate for a man twice his size. It made sense, of course, he himself used to be twice his current size. Stress, he told his coworkers. A home life that was falling down around his ears. They would never know how… literal he was being.

The man joined his family at the table and everyone began their meal. Breakfast, as always, was a subdued affair. Mealtimes invariable were. In fact, any time when the entire family gathered was markedly dispirited. It had always been like that.

The only member of the quartet spoke that morning was his cousin, and as usual, it was to complain about his portions. "How come I only get _three_ eggs?" He shouted with his usual petulance.

"Because, darling, we only had ten eggs left this morning." She imploringly explained, trying to smile in a sweet and placating manner, and failing miserably. It came out as more of a wince. Not that hurt her case any, his cousin had stopped looking at her the moment his plea had been made.

Instead, his cousin's gaze fell on his plate, where half a steak and one of his eggs remained. "Make him give me the rest of his!" the boy, who was already rapidly approaching a previously unheard of body composition where he was as wide as he was tall, demanded peevishly.

Rather than put up a fight in which he stood no chance, he complied, shoving his remaining egg onto his cousin's plate.

"Steak, too!" his cousin ordered. At which point, the head of the Dursley house made his voice heard for the first time. "You heard him, b-boy! Give him the steak!" he said with a raised voice in a half-cocked effort to appear stern in the face of the portly boys ever-increasing demands. He again simply complied. The meal was almost over, and, so far, he had managed to avoid any major, painful confrontations. It was not to be, however.

As he got up to clear the table of the now empty dishes, the mail flap was heard snapping closed. He gingerly placed the tableware in the sink to soak while he went to the door to retrieve the day's mail. As per usual, there were bills, credit card offers, other useless detritus that would be discarded as soon as its nature was determined. Notable items included a postcard from Vernon's sister, Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Man, as well as a letter addressed to… him of all people. This letter was strange for a number of reasons, not least of which that it was addressed to him, as he had not, in recent memory, gotten any mail. Other oddities were its construction - a thick material quite unlike the machine made paper he was used to, as well as the emerald green ink. Also, the letter was rather unusually specific in its address, denoting the very "room" in which he lived.

He took all of this in as he returned to the kitchen to deliver the mail to Vernon to be sorted through while he cleaned the dishes. He would read this strange letter after he was done with his morning's chores. Or so he thought.

As soon as his cousin saw the envelope in his hands after he had handed the remainder to Vernon, he went berserk. "Give me that!" his cousin insisted.

"No, it's mine!" he shot back.

"Yours? Who'd be writing to you?" he inquired, scorn and incredulity dripping from his voice, as he made for the envelope.

The resident of the cupboard made a break for his abode, however, not even his agility and finely tuned reflexes allowed him to evade the incoming tackle from his whalish cousin. They thudded to the egregiously expensive wood flooring, painfully in his case. He had the wind knocked out of him from the force of the impact and the weight of his cousin on his chest as the corpulent child grabbed at the letter he clung to desperately.

Quickly, in an atypically tactical move, his cousin abandoned his attempts to grab the envelope directly, opting instead to incapacitate its holder. As was his wont, he chose to employ fisticuffs in this endeavor. As his cousin threw the first punch, he felt a… power welling up within him. It was familiar, in fact, it was the exact same feeling he had when he escaped his cousin's gang after school by teleporting onto the roof of a nearby building. Before he could connect the dots, however, the feeling abruptly left him. Its outlet was the boy currently sitting astride his chest.

The pulse of… force flung the obese child off his chest at an odd angle, causing him to fly into the juncture of the wall and thee ceiling, impacting with a resounding crack that left hairline fractures spider-webbing outwards from the point of contact. His cousin fell from there to the counter, and, thence, to the floor right next to him, landing both times with a dull thud. The impact having knocked him out, as he had yet to cry out in pain or make any other sort of noise.

He beat a hasty retreat to his cupboard. He didn't want to be there when his cousin awoke from his stupor. Not only would he suffer his cousin's wrath directly, but Vernon would be forced to punish him as well, to appease his cousin. Hopefully he'd be able to hide out in the cupboard until his cousin came to and was appeased by other means than a beating for him.

Now that he had escaped the clutches of his bully of a cousin, he took the time to more closely examine the envelope containing his letter. The envelope was sealed in… wax? Odd, he thought. Also strange was the forward: To Mr. Dudley Dursley, Cupboard-under-the-stairs, Number 4 Privet Drive, Surrey. Stranger still was the return address: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

 _What on Earth was a Hogwarts?_


	2. Chapter 2

He had read the letter over dozens of times, yet he still couldn't quite grasp the contents. _I'm a_ wizard. He repeated to himself countless times, unable to quite believe it, even though the proof was there in front of him.

The letter amounted to two things: 1, informing him that he was magical, just like his overweight, tyrannical cousin, Harry Potter, who had visited a reign of terror upon the house of Dursley ever since he learned of his heritage by eavesdropping on his aunt and uncle while they were lamenting their misfortune of being forced to take in a 'freak' like him. 2, was an invitation to study at the premiere academy of magic in the whole of Britain, Hogwarts. Included in the letter was a supply list for all the things he would need for his magical education.

It never crossed his mind to simply not go. His parents had been remarkably tolerant of magic and those with it since Harry had learned he was a wizard. They had needed to, his incessant threatening ensured their compliance. They didn't know he couldn't control his powers any more than they could, but that was a risk they were unwilling to take. Such was the love they had for their son. They had sacrificed health and happiness that he would survive. They may not think he noticed, but he did, and it had shaped the young man he was becoming, though no one knew that just yet.

As he began to finally internalize the fact of his abilities, his imagination wandered. He was just starting to picture what a magical institution of learning might be like when the doorbell rang. Curious because the hour was relatively late in the middle of the week, no less, he decided to risk the wrath of his corpulent cousin and leave the relative safety of his cupboard.

"Dudley, the door!" his mother called from the sitting room, where she and his father were partaking of a nightcap whilst consuming the evening news reports. He warily made his way to the entryway, keeping an eye out for Harry.

Dudley managed to traverse the house unmolested and opened the door to the strangest sight he had seen in his admittedly short life - a tall, severe-looking woman dressed in tartan robes and the most stereotypical witches hat anyone in that house had ever seen. "Er, hello?" he stammered out to the intimidating caller.

"How do you do?" she inquired politely, "young Mr. Dursley, I presume?"

"Yes," he replied, gaining confidence as it was clear by her tone and the fact that she obviously knew him that she was friendly.

"May I come in?" the Scottish witch suggested inquisitively.

"O-of course," Dudley said, regaining his ingrained sense of decorum "may I take your… er, hat?"

"Thank you, my boy, but I shan't be long." she declined gracefully.

"Er, right. This way, ma'am." he instructed as he lead the way to the sitting room where waited his parents.

As they entered the sitting room, the Dursleys rose from their seats and made motions to make themselves more presentable to their guest. That task completed, Vernon moved towards the witch and shook her hand with a rather limp grip. "Vernon Dursley, at your service." he said as his wife approached. "My wife, Petunia." upon her introduction, the woman in question gave a warm smile and an equally warm "Charmed."

The stern looking witch crinkled about the eyes at the woman's unwitting pun, giving no other indication of her amusement, she replied with a simple "Likewise. Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Mistress of Transfiguration at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I'm here to apologize on behalf of the school."

"Apologize? Whatever for?" blurted Petunia.

"I believe that you received a letter this morning?" she asked Dudley, to which he responded "Y-yes." realizing before he asked how she knew about the letter before embarrassing himself by asking her about it.

"The… ah, situation you find yourselves in is most unusual. It's very rare for the muggle relatives of a half-blood like Mr. Potter to gain guardianship of the magical child, much less bear a magical child as the first of a new line. So, you see, our normal protocol for first generation wizards was quite overlooked in your case, causing, I think, undue stress for you this morning." She ended sympathetically. "Normally, for muggleborns, their first letter is hand delivered by one of the staff, such as myself, however, Mr. Dursley's letter was sent before we realized that it was going to him, rather than his cousin."

"Ah, so that's why you're here now." Dudley remarked quickly.

"Quite." said McGonagall approving of his quick-wittedness. "Normally, this is done to prove the existence of magic and inform the family about the process by magicals are educated. In this case, I am merely here to alleviate the… shock of realizing that Dudley here is magical. Additionally, I would like to extend an offer to accompany you to Diagon Alley in order to purchase whatever supplies you require for the coming year at Hogwarts."

"Brilliant." Dudley exclaimed, a radiant smile adorning a face unused to such open displays of happiness.

"O-of course, we'd love to have a guide to help us… integrate into the magical community." Petunia said, flustered by the unexpected show of good sense by the magical schoolteacher. Her husband, who had, upon learning that Dudley was magical, begun to slowly hope that the tyranny of his nephew was finally coming to an end, and, increasingly, showed that hope on his face, simply nodded his ascent.

As if summoned by the older man's thoughts, the occupants of the sitting room heard Harry tromping down the stairs, making sure to stomp extra hard on the steps directly above the cupboard. They waited, alternatively with patience on the part of McGonagall and mild terror on the part of everyone else. The boy burst into the room loudly, immediately seeking out his cousin in order to hurl abuse at him. Finding him almost immediately, he sneered in his direction "Don't look at me, you filthy muggle!"

Hearing this, McGonagall immediately went into Headmistress mode, calling out sharply "Mr. Potter!"

Unused to such sternness, the boy in question was momentarily stunned into silence. Pressing her advantage, McGonagall continued "Such… behavior is not tolerated in students of Hogwarts, Mr. Potter. You would do well to remember that come September."

Regaining his bravado after the initial barrage, Harry replied "What should I care what's expected at a place as stupid as _Hogwarts_?"

Deciding to try and cow the impertinent child, McGonagall slyly quipped "Well, you shouldn't, unless, of course, you would like to learn _magic_."

At this, Harry's eyes widened in shock, and he quickly backpedalled "O-of course I want to learn magic."

Thinking she had succeeded in putting him in his place, only for him to immediately ruin it by continuing "Anything to get away from these stupid muggles." at which she decided to, in fact, show these muggles a small piece of magic. She surreptitiously drew her wand with nary a whisper of cloth and quickly pointed it at the boy that bore so little resemblance to the parents she had so adored as students. Subtly making the appropriate movements with her wand, she incanted " _Pungo!"_ under her breath.

The only indication of the onrushing spell was a slight ripple in the air, noticeable only by the most practiced eye. It impacted the foul-mouthed boy on the left buttock, causing him to yelp shrilly and clasp his rear. Before he could further befoul the air, the offending professor cut in "Now, Mr. Potter, I must insist that you mediate you language while you are in my presence, or I shall be forced to rely upon more… drastic measures."

Wide-eyed, the boy in question merely nodded enthusiastically, not brave enough to risk further offend the no-nonsense witch.

"Good. Now, back to business." she said in clipped tones. "While you are here, Mr. Potter, I should give you this." as she pulled out a letter almost identical to the one Dudley had received that morning, handing it to the reprobate boy. Hoping that the combination of punishment and distraction would keep Potter occupied while she conversed with the adults, she continued. "I recommend making the trip to the Alley sooner rather than later, Magical culture is similar to Muggle in regards to shopping procrastination, and we want as relaxing an experience as possible for your first time."

For the first time since McGonagall began, Vernon spoke up. "I quite agree. When would you prefer to take us to this… Alley?"

"Well, I am quite free at any time, really. As you can imagine, the responsibilities of an educator are rather… mild during the summer holidays." She smiled accommodatingly.

Petunia followed on quickly with a suggestion of her own. "Why don't we go this weekend? Marge is showing her dogs at a show in London this Saturday, we could make a day of it." she said with false brightness, knowing of the feud between her husband and his sister caused by their rather obliging treatment of what she referred to as a " _bad pup._ " for, as she always said " _If there's something wrong with the bitch, there's something wrong with the pup._ " Little did she know that their hand was forced. "Would you like to join us, Mrs. McGonagall?"

With a twinkle in her eyes, the aged Transfiguration Mistress "regretfully" declined, saying "I'm afraid I'm rather more of a cat person. I would, of course, be happy to meet you afterwards, and escort you to Diagon Alley then."

"That sounds lovely, doesn't it darling?" inquired Petunia of her Dudders and husband. Both enthusiastically agreed.

At that moment, Harry chose to re enter the conversation. "What'll we do with _that_ , while we get my school things?" indicating his cousin.

With barely restrained glee, Dudley turned to his hated cousin "Didn't you know, Harry? I'm a wizard."

* * *

 **A/N This is my first attempt at fanfiction, so I'd especially appreciate your feedback. And, remember, this is satire.**

 **Thanks for reading and please review, it touches me in all my special places.**


	3. Chapter 3

Quickly making arrangements to meet that Saturday afternoon at a shady sounding pub in London called the Leaky Cauldron, McGonagall beat a hasty retreat in the face of the mounting tension. Dudley followed suit shortly thereafter, leaving Harry without his favorite target. Thus bereft, he made his way to his rooms. The adults took to the liquor cabinet to relieve their stress from the unexpected day.

"Well, that was an… unexpected piece of news." Vernon said leadingly.

Petunia uncomfortably replied, "Well, not exactly. My sister _was_ after all, a witch. There must be some magical blood in me."

"Too true, my dear. Too true." he reflected. "Well, I'm off to kip for the night, I've had quite enough excitement for one day, I think."

The intervening days between meetings with the Deputy Headmistress were relatively quiet. This was due, in large part, too Harry's sudden lack of anything with which to threaten his formerly cowed cousin. This was an entirely novel situation, and he could make neither heads nor tails of it, much to the relief of the various members of the Dursley household.

The dog show was a relatively minor one and, while excellent at breeding and training her English Bulldogs, the actual shows she was rather pedestrian. The family enjoyed the show, mostly as a result of their excitement at the prospect of the upcoming trip into magical London. Bidding Aunt Marge farewell after a plain, quintessentially British lunch, the quartet made their way slowly through the midday London traffic towards the pub that was their meeting place.

Finally making out their destination, Vernon proudly proclaimed "And seven minutes to spare, no less!" at which Petunia rolled her eyes, knowing well what was coming next. "I always say, if you aren't early, you're late. Right, boys?" Their unified "Yes, sir!" was, on Harry's part, mumbled. Dudley, however, took his father's oft repeated mantra to heart long ago, and was much more enthusiastic in his response.

They found a parking place with surprising ease for the location and made their way inside the dark, unobtrusive pub. There was oddly little different from an aesthetic standpoint between the magical pub and any other pub in central London, however, the difference in the patrons was… marked. While the stern Deputy had obviously made an effort to blend in to non-magical Surrey on her visit during the week, neither she nor any of the other occupants of the pub had taken such measures today. The people universally looked like something out of a bad b-movie about magical people from the 17th century. Seeing this, Dudley promised himself he'd bring the concept of "cool" into the magical community's fashion sense.

Catching their attention, the Transfiguration Mistress approached, greeting the four "Mr. and Mrs. Dursley. Harry, Dudley. Good to see you all this afternoon." This was met with a chorus of salutations from the group. "Well, shall we? This way." She instructed following the nods she received.

She lead them past the bar and out a back entrance to the pub, much to the confusion of those she was escorting. They had good reason for their befuddlement, as the place she had brought them to was an apparent dead end. She, however, merely approached the brick wall that marked the end of the path and unsheathed her wand, using it to tap out a seemingly random pattern on the bricks in the middle of the wall at about eye level for an average adult woman. That done, she stepped back and reholstered her wand, as she did so, a… hole appeared in the formerly quite solid wall that expanded outward to form a vaulted arch into what could only be described as the magical equivalent of Regent Street. The place was packed with witches and wizards adorned in robes of all description. Some had hats, while many were bare-headed, they all, however, bore a distinctly hurried countenance, as though the task they were performing was the most urgent in the whole world. _For such a… rustic looking people, they sure are… hasty_ Vernon harrumphed to himself as he observed the press of people they were about to wade into.

"The magical world deals in an entirely different currency than our muggle counterparts, making our first stop the wizarding bank, Gringotts. So, if you'll follow me." McGonagall said as she stepped out into the crowd. Her height, coupled with her truly impressive witch's hat made her relatively easy for the four to follow, despite the how densely the Alley was packed. Thus they made quick work of the trek from the pub to the bank, which was easily the most impressive structure on the row, standing several stories tall and made entirely out of pristine, white marble. The doors, however, were the most impressive, there were two sets, one of bronze, the other of silver, which was inscribed in rather ancient-looking runes that were indecipherable to all of the party. Curious, Dudley asked about the words. "Ah, yes. The goblins are quite fond of their gold. That was a rather insidious warning against all attempts at thievery. I strongly suggest you take heed of it."

"Goblins?" The boy exclaimed.

"Yes, they have exclusive rights to the banking of the magical world, as well as the precious metal mines and the minting of coinage. They are very straightforward and businesslike, to the point of abrasiveness. They take the adage 'time is money' quite literally." The witch replied.

"Aha! I knew there had to be sensible folk amongst you magicals!" the Dursley patriarch proclaimed triumphantly.

"Manners!" his wife scolded, to which he responded with a contrite "Yes, dear."

"Quite." McGonagall intoned as she turned to the nearest teller queue, the command to follow implicit in her posture. The four hastily obeyed the unspoken order and joined her for a brief wait before they approached the next available goblin.

Before they arrived at the counter, McGonagall turned to them and said "Our first order of business will be to visit Mr. Potter's vault and make a withdrawal, then, we'll return to the surface and you may exchange your notes for wizarding coins." She finished this as she approached the teller, and, turning, she addressed the goblin ensconced behind it "A withdrawal for Mr. Potter, please."

"Do you have Mr. Potter's key?" the diminutive banker inquired brusquely.

"Of course." she replied quickly. The goblin made a note on his ledger at this, and a low ranking goblin approached to guide them to the vaults. They made their way behind the small humanoid and, after several minutes of brisk walking, a mining cart came into view in a rough-hewn section of what looked to be a little-modified natural cavern. They approached the cart, much to the growing concern of the muggle adults. However, before they could board the… vehicle, they were accosted by a goblin of considerable age, dressed in a highly functional and much abused looking set of armour that seemed to emit a faint… glow. "Mr. Potter?" he asked.

"That's me." the boy in question supplied somewhat defensively.

"Follow me." he commanded, immediately about facing and marching off at a pace that quickly had the corpulent boy huffing irritably. Hearing the lack of a sufficient number of footsteps, the high-ranking goblin barked out "That means all of you!" as he rounded a corner.

Glancing around in confusion, the remainder of the group hurried to keep the goblin in sight as they heard his heavy footfalls fading into the distance in the warren of passageways that made up the domain of the goblins. Despite their haste, the group was unable to catch up with their new guide until he had stopped at what was obviously his office, their progress impeded by having to carry Harry in turns as his rotund form had worn him out well before he had arrived at his destination. They would never have made it to the office had their vault guide not recognized the older goblin and known the way to his office.

Upon their arrival, the armoured goblin ushered them in with quick, irritable motions, following them in, muttering "About time…" under his breath as he did so. "Sit" he told them as he followed his own command behind a large, but utilitarian desk. "I am Richard, manager of the Potter estate. I have interrupted your business with Gringotts to address some unresolved issues with the will of the last Potters." he informed his now thoroughly intrigued audience. "The first order of business involves a Mr. Dudley Dursley. Is he here?"

"He is." Dudley replied.

Richard looked at him, then down at the lower right-hand drawer of his desk, which he opened. He drew a syringe made of crystal and decorated with golden filigree and handed it to Dudley. "Take some blood with this." looking at the boy in question expectantly. Seeing Dudley's hesitancy, he reassured him, "It only requires a few drops, so you can just -"

"Oh for goodness' sake," broke in McGonagall "it's no wonder you goblins have your own wing at St. Mungo's" she said, reaching for the device "terrible bedside manner, I'm not surprised you prefer a human healer to work on you." She turned back to Dudley and held out her hand in command while placing the syringe on the desk. Dudley complied, placing his hand in hers. She produced her wand from somewhere within the sleeve of her robe, flourished it, finishing with a jab towards the pointer finger of the hand she held, incanting " _Torpetia!_ " The offending digit went abruptly numb as she returned the wand to wherever it was she kept it and picked the syringe up again. Seeing this, Dudley quickly averted his gaze for a moment, only returning his eyes to his hand when McGonagall told him that she was finished. He looked back just as McGonagall returned the foreign device to the goblin.

With the syringe in one hand, the goblin waved the fingers of his other hand over it in an intricate pattern. At the completion of this brief ritual, a slip of parchment… appeared from the cylinder of the apparatus. Quickly perusing the contents, he grunted as though his thoughts had been confirmed. "The blood test has indicated that you are, in fact, a magical blood relation of the deceased Lily Potter nee Evans." opening another drawer, he produced an old-fashioned brass key, which he handed to Dudley. "This is your vault key." he said, and, seeing the questions forming of the lips of the three Dursleys, he continued "The Potters suspected that Mrs. Dursley might have at least one magical child, and made arrangements if that eventuality came to pass, which it now has. One of those arrangements was a trust vault, to be managed by myself until such a time as the eldest of Mrs. Dursley's children reached the age of majority - 17. A similar vault has been maintained for Mr. Potter, the key to which has already been handed over." The thunderstruck audience remained silent, which Richard took to mean he should continue. "The other matter concerns the progress reports we prepare for the vaults we maintain, specifically, who gets what reports for which vaults."

At this, McGonagall spoke up "I suggest having the reports sent home, you'll have quite enough to manage at Hogwarts without worrying about your investments." she said to the 2 boys.

Harry's reaction was immediate and violent "No! I'll not have some filthy muggles control all my money." he pouted, on the verge of a truly epic tantrum.

"Mr. Potter -" both Richard and McGonagall started, the former in a long-suffering tone, the latter in exasperated outrage. Flustered, they made eye contact and the goblin raised his eyebrow as if to say, _let me handle this one_. McGonagall subtly nodded her acquiescence and Richard continued as if there had been no interruption "these… muggles have no legal authority, as such, they cannot be selected as the recipients of such sensitive documents. The individual must be magical and of legal majority." seeing that he had managed to calm the irate preteen, he soldiered on once more "That being said, I do have a suggestion."

His fears assuaged and his bigotry satisfied, Harry indicated that the goblin should continue. Pleased with the child's quickly improving attitude, Richard decided against his initial plan of screwing the lad royally, and offered genuine, good advice. "You have a godfather, Mr. Potter, one Lord Sirius Black, the head of the most Crotchety and Demented house of White. His holdings are… vast, and most of those holdings have been acquired under his lordship. His guidance would be most… profitable for all involved parties, and I suggest you have us send our reports to him. I'm sure he would be most pleased to have some involvement in your life. I'm told the legal proceedings regarding his status as your legal, magical guardian are quite without precedent in both cost and time, the case has yet to be resolved, even after a decade."

"A Lord?" the boys exclaimed in unison "Can I meet him?" they turned to each other as soon as they realized their mimicry, and glared at each other. Sensing the tension, and seeking to keep the situation from escalating and wasting more of his valuable time, Richard quickly put in "I'm sure something can be arranged. I'll see to it. Now, I'm sure you all have business to attend to, Mr. Weyland, if you would."

With that, their original goblin lead them back to the cart and took them to the moderate vaults each boy had to his name. There they withdrew enough gold to buy their supplies and see them through any unexpected expenses throughout the year. having done that, they returned without incident to the surface and began buying their supplies. The shopping trip was exceedingly normal and they were able to buy all the essentials, school supplies, clothing, knick-knacks, a good trunk, a pet apiece (A gorgeous snowy rat for Harry and an extremely poisonous magical snake, which slept throughout the entire transaction despite an odd… resonance that he felt for the creature for Dudley) however, on their last stop - Ollivander's - a most peculiar thing happened.

They entered just a _thump_ of such volume that it was felt more than heard sounded in the lobby of the shop. The percussion emanated from a tall boy with dark hair who was waving a stick about like a loon. Nearby a tall, waifish man with wild white hair blurted "No. No, definitely not!" and grabbed the stick from the boy's hand quicker than the eye could follow, only to immediately replace it with another almost indistinguishable from the last. The boy took it with obvious trepidation and waved it again, only for the bell affixed to the door to alert the proprietor of the shop that there were customers to suddenly explode in a great crash that would have sounded more appropriate for a cymbal than a tiny doorbell. This fact was clearly not lost on the shopkeeper, as the unmistakable expression of epiphany etched itself on his features.

Without explanation, the man grabbed the boy's hand with one of his, while the other wrested the stick from the child's slack grip. Before the boy could react, he was being drug into the depths of the store. There was an interminable silence followed by the most dissonant and awful banging and clashing of cymbals one could imagine. This cacophony was followed by another quiet spell (much to the relief of all those present, especially those of rather advanced age). The second silent stretch was put to period by the reappearance of the dark-haired boy, whose face was plastered with a truly enormous grin. "Hullo, I'm Neville, Neville Longbottom." he greeted the group enthusiastically, and, turning to Harry and Dudley, he said "here for your wands, as well, then?"

Dudley had been sizing the taller boy up since he walked into the place, an unfortunate but necessary habit for someone in his position, thanks to his bully of a cousin, and he concluded that, while physically imposing, the boy lacked the gumption to pose any threat. However, something about what happened while he was in the back of the shop had altered this Neville's bearing. It was slight, but where he had once seen well coached self-assurance, he now saw true confidence in Neville. With this in mind, he decided that this was someone he could get along with. "Of course," he said easily "I'm Dudley Dursley, by the way." with this, he reached out his hand while meeting the taller boy's eyes and gave a firm handshake at the conclusion of which, he gave a slight smile, which Neville returned in kind.

Neville then turned to acquaint himself with the fat companion of the boy he had just met, only to be categorically ignored. The dark-headed boy was busy perusing the shelves, not that it did him much good, as he could make neither heads nor tails of their contents. Brushing the ignoramus' snub aside he returned his gaze to an apologetic Dudley. "I'm meeting a couple friends of mine, first years, like us, this evening here in the Alley for a spot of ice cream, just up the way at Florean Fortescue's, they'd love to meet you."

Surprised, Dudley nonetheless replied with a gracious "Of course, I'd love to meet some of our year mates. What'll you do in the meantime?"

"I figured I'll stick around and watch the, ah, two of you get your wands. It is, I've just learned, quite an interesting and involved process."

Quietly chuckling at his pun, Dudley nodded his assent and turned towards his cousin who had engaged with the shopkeeper and was being assaulted by an animated tape measure, much to the amusement of everyone visiting the shop sans the boy being att- measured.

The three adult patrons had watched the interaction between the scion of the Most Foolhardy and Grandiose house of Longbottom and Dudley with interest and no small amount of pride. McGonagall knew what the other two did not, that this particular boy was one of this generation's Moot of Four, a council of four, each from families that had been almost unerringly sorted into each of the four houses for generations: The Longbottoms to Gryffindor, the Blacks to Slytherin, the Bones' to Hufflepuff, and the Corners to Ravenclaw. Each generation, the most senior member of each respective house, provided that person was sorted appropriately, was inducted into this conclave. It was this council, rather than the larger, more egalitarian Wizengamot, that held the true power, for its membership comprised the leadership of all of the major Wizengamot factions. Most believed the Moot was merely a political show, only existing to alleviate fears that the politics of the nation were petty disputes and that the various parties were incapable of cooperation. The Moot was more than satisfied to let the public continue in its delusions.

She was drawn out of her musings by the sound of Harry's success as Mr. Ollivander informed him of the peculiarities of his wand, a brother to Voldemort's. She would have to report this news to Albus upon her return. This was most curious indeed. She looked around the shop as Dudley approached the elderly wandmaker. Judging by the number of boxes littering the place and the position of the sun, this matchmaking had taken an uncommonly long time. Unfortunately, Harry's wand selection was but a fleeting moment compared to his cousin's.

After at least two hours of gruelling wand waving. The aged shopkeeper had all but given up. There was, however, one last trick he had up his sleeve. he tiredly raised a finger, begging patience of his incorrigible customer and retreated to the back of his shop, where he kept his instruments. He returned moments later holding a truly stunning guitar. It was a semi-hollow bodied guitar, with violin-style f-holes and a three-on-three head. It had a sunburst pattern and a signature just below the bridge. The old wizard handled it with care bordering on reverence. "This is the guitar of Alex Lifeson, do be kind to it. I won it in a raffle in which I did not cheat, and had it signed at one of their shows on Rush's first tour of the UK."

Neville perked up noticeably as the guitar was handed over to his new ally. The effect of the guitar coming to rest in the boy's hands was palpable. Everyone in the store felt a sense of… rightness. Dudley started picking the opening bars of the version of Pachelbel's Canon in D that he'd begun practicing in his cupboard before learning of his abilities.

Everyone had just started getting into the groove of the song when suddenly a bright flash of orange light erupted from the pickups and shot across the room, blasting a small crater in the wall above the counter.

Reeling in surprise, the magical adults descended upon the six-string wizard who had just performed a 5th year Defense spell with no training using a guitar. Upon reaching the confused but inwardly pleased preteen, McGonagall pointed an accusatory finger at the wandmaker. "How could you give a boy with no training such a dangerous magical focus?" she yelled.

"How was I to know he was a trained classical guitarist?" he defended as he reached out for the implement in question. Taking it gingerly in hand, he retreated to the musical focus room and ensconced the aged guitar in its case once more. Returning, he silently instructed his measure to take readings of the tall, apparent guitar prodigy. He waited for the device to complete its work, all the while glancing edgily at the stern transfiguration professor, lest she bite his head off in the literal sense… he had heard some truly outlandish rumors about her.

Once the measure had finished, he gathered the results from an enchanted bit of parchment and collected the components indicated therein. He returned quickly, laying out the materials on the counter, instructing Dudley to hold his hand above each, while holding a silver rod in his other. As his hand paused over each container, the rod glowed golden.

Once this process was complete, Ollivander returned the materials to the storage room. Coming back to the lobby area, he addressed his most difficult customer. "The containers you just tested were wand components. I shall make from them a guitar, of the modern style, modelled after the Ibanez Prototype TAM, a favorite of a cutting edge musician from the United States. Included are 8 distinct dragon heartstrings, from 8 breeds, representing each aspect of the 4 alchemical elements. They will be coated in magically reinforced gold. The body and neck are to be comprised of beech. I will gold plate professionally sourced furniture and pickups, I will also provide the magical equivalent of an amplifier and equalizer pedal set."

While Dudley processed this turn of events, his father, ever frugal, spoke up for the first time since entering the shop. "How much will all of that cost?" That sure sounded like a lot of gold to him.

"For an opportunity as rare as this? The standard wand price will suffice, it's not often one is allowed to craft a true masterpiece. That is reward enough for this undertaking." he paused, thinking "you should also acquire a book on Audiomancy for strings. I believe Flourish and Blotts has the fourth edition of an exemplary primer on the subject."

Slightly dazed by the whole affair, Dudley turned to the visibly impressed crowd that had accompanied him throughout the day. Notable among them were his decidedly unimpressed cousin (nothing new there) and an oddly contemplative Neville. As he approached, the taller boy emerged from his reverie and said "Let's all go to Flourish and Blott's, we can both pick up our audiomancy books at the same time."

"Wait," McGonagall interjected "both?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'm a percussive audiomancer, apparently" he replied, brandishing 2 inert wandwood drumsticks.

"I… see." she said simply. Thinking back on her time as an educator and as a student, she couldn't recall 2 audiomancers ever being in the same year. They were exceedingly rare, the only other one currently at the school was a 7th year Hufflepuff, a flautist. More news for Dumbledore. She had a sneaking suspicion that Hogwarts was going to have an uncommonly eventful several years.

"Well, let's us go and get that book, shall we?" said the ever accommodating Petunia. And so they did. Afterwards, they made their way to the Leaky Cauldron, while Dudley stopped by the ice cream shop with Neville, much to Harry's consternation.

They arrived just as 2 other children of their age sat down - a fair-skinned, lithe, auburn-haired witch, and a boy with platinum-blonde hair and the pointiest chin Dudley had ever seen. "Draco, Susan!" Neville called out as he approached. The two turned to the noise and smiled warmly as they recognized their friend. "Neville," they shouted in turn, hurrying over to their friend.

Each embraced Neville and pecked him on the cheek. Their salutations complete, Neville introduced Dudley, whereupon they greeted him in the same fashion and with just as much apparent warmth. Surprised, he nonetheless copied their actions with reasonable success. Propriety satisfied, they got down to the business of eating their ice cream and making smalltalk.

A little over an hour later, the quartet having sated their sweet tooths and established a budding friendship over their mutual audiomancy, Dudley was called away by his parents and McGonagall. After their farewells had been given, Neville turned to the others and began the meeting for which they had actually convened. "I know we've been tasked with finding a new Raven, and I think I've found him."

"I agree, it can't be a coincidence that he's an audiomancer, too. There's never been more than one in a year in Britain before." Draco replied, immediately reading between the lines of what his longtime friend and future Mootmate was saying.

"I'm not sure, but it's certainly worth investigating. We should bring our suspicions to the Moot." reasoned Susan.

"Absolutely." Draco affirmed.

"Then we're in agreement?" Neville asked.

"Aye." the others responded.

"Then let us adjourn." Neville said, concluding their meeting for the day.

A/N

Sorry for the wait, I was on the road for a few days, vacationing. Also going to a wedding, yay love!

Hope you enjoy the chapter, it's quite a bit more substantial than the first 2. I also tried to limit the repetitiveness that plagues the shopping chapter, which I hope you appreciate.

In any case, let me know what you think.


	4. Chapter 4

The remainder of the summer holidays were spent in much the same way as they had before the boys' Hogwarts letters had arrived. Harry playing Skyrim and passing the 2000 hours played mark, and Dudley voraciously consuming his school material, albeit now it was rather more arcane. Thus, the time passed quickly and in relative harmony as the date of the beginning of term drew ever closer.

On the day of, the family of 4 hastily and with much harrumphing on part of Vernon, made the trip to King's Cross and, remembering McGonagall's instructions, headed towards the platform that conjoined 9 and 10. Once there, they, in pairs of one adult and one child, made their way through the barrier between the platforms.

They passed seamlessly through what appeared to be solid brick and arrived in a train station that looked more appropriate for the waxing days of the british rail industry. The centerpiece was a magnificent scarlet and black steamer, with cars to match. Hanging about the platform were dozens of wizarding families, chatting and milling about, hoping to stretch the time that remained before the students returned to Hogwarts for the fall term. Into this crowd the 4 waded.

Dudley bade his parents farewell, having arranged to meet Neville and co. prior to boarding the appropriately named Hogwarts Express when he had returned to Diagon Alley to retrieve his wandtar. Finding the trio proved somewhat difficult, since, while Neville was rather tall for his age, he was still, after all, 11 and still quite short on an absolute scale. Dudley, was, however, saved by the fact that Neville's father was just as tall, relatively speaking, as his son and the two shared an uncanny resemblance. After catching sight of the older man, Dudley hurried over to his new friends.

The landmark by which he navigated proved to be the first person in the moot-huddle to spot him and, on doing so, raised his arm to point Dudley out to the rest. The group contained the previous generation of the moot and their wives, sans the Corner family. Frank and Alice Longbottom, with sons Neville and Charles, as well as daughter Amaranth, along with Augusta, the elderly Dowager Longbottom. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy (nee Black) with son Draco. Head Auror Amelia Bones with her niece, Susan.

All of this information (except about the Moot) was conveyed to Dudley in a flurry of introductions and 'pleased to meet you's that left him in a daze. He managed by the old English standby of falling on the most rigorous decorum in his arsenal, much to the pleasure of the adults and relief of the children who had vouched for him. This heady exchange was interrupted by Lucius who quietly exclaimed "My, look at the time, it really does fly when one is enjoying oneself. Off with you." jovially indicating towards the train with his snake-head adorned cane, which was of exceptional make, Dudley idly noted as he joined the others filing onto the rustic train.

While Dudley was engaging the families of his new friends, Harry churlishly elected to remain behind with a visibly uncomfortable Vernon and Petunia. The couple was, however, spared further discomfiture when a clan of the most aggressively red-headed people they had ever laid eyes on made their way through the crowd and the youngest amongst them, a tall boy that would have been lanky but for the well-seated paunch already present on his prepubescent stomach, saw Harry's scar as he passed by and made a scene. "It's Harry Potter!" he shouted. Fortunately for all involved, no one outside his family or the Dursleys heard his outburst. Unfortunately for Harry, the scarlet haired mass descended upon him like locust. The only thing he had learned of them before he managed to extricate himself from their collective clutches was that they were called Weasley.

Having made his escape, Harry backed into his aunt and uncle, using them as bulwarks against further mistreatment, and addressed the family who so rudely handled him properly. "Yes, I am Harry Potter." Then, defensively, he continued "Why were you doing… that?"

The matron, a plump woman so thoroughly the stereotype of the housewife that it was painful to witness, had by then managed to curtail the exuberance of her charges enough to make an intelligible response. "Harry dear, I _must_ apologize for their behavior. You'll have to forgive them, they've never met a celebrity before."

"Celebrity?" he asked, with badly masked pleased calculation.

"Of course dear. You did, after all, defeat the most powerful Dark Lord of the century."

"I what?" this time with genuine confusion and curiosity.

"You don't know?" said an older boy, bookish, wearing horn rimmed glasses, tone heavy with scepticism.

Before Harry could answer, the mother Weasley broke in. "Now Percy, no one's seen Harry in the wizarding world in quite some time, he could have been cut off." This last was directed somewhat scathingly at the adults flanking the boy in question. However, once she saw the twin looks of confusion and mild disturbance on the faces of the accused, her expression softened. "You must be muggles." she deduced in the most pitying, motherly tone she could manage. Seeing their nods, she offered them escape "We can handle the… unpleasantness of telling him his past."

Not wanting to stick around in the foreign and increasingly disturbing environment they now found themselves in, the couple nodded their thanks as they retreated to the barrier and, thence, to their car. They returned to Surrey in silence, processing what they had learned that day.

Harry, meanwhile, was hustled into a compartment with the youngest Weasley, who he had learned was called Ron. Ron proceeded to tell him about the war with he-who-must-not-be-named and Harry's role in it.

While Harry was being apprised of his past, Dudley was engaging with the youngest Mooters in speculation about which house they would be sorted into, after learning all about the house system in place at Hogwarts. There really was no great mystery about it to the other three, especially on their account - their respective families had been sorted consistently into the same house for centuries. The only real question was Dudley himself, but, even there, they were fairly confident that they had found the Moot's new Raven.

The trip passed quickly for the 2 boys and their companions. Soon, the train rolled to a stop in Hogsmeade station and the students began to disembark. As soon as the foursome had done so, they spotted an enormous man - he had to be at least 10 feet tall, and he looked like he very much enjoyed his food. The reason they had spotted him so quickly was that he was booming out over the crowd "Firs' years! Over here, firs' years! This way!" They made their way to the giant with good speed, among the first to do so.

They milled about for a while, waiting for the remainder of their year mates to arrive. As the last students arrived in the small crowd around the immense, heavily bearded man, Dudley heard him recite a list of names, apparently the one held forgotten in his hand, of the people around him, making eye contact with each person as he muttered their name. Assured that all were present and accounted for, he turned and called over his shoulder "Righ' you lot, follow me." and trod off to the shore of a large mountain lake.

The first years arrived at the lake on a small dock with a modest fleet of 4-person rowboats, minus the oars. Seeing his friends board the diminutive craft with no qualms, Neville followed suit. Once the rest of the first timers had gotten into the boats, the man, Hagrid he had told the group as he was leading them to the dock, made a lazy 'charge' motion with his hand and the boats, with no visible means of doing so, started forward in unison.

As the boats progressed across the lake, they come out a cove that was bordered by forest, obscuring the castle from view, and as one gasped as they saw Hogwarts for the first time. _It_ is _quite a sight, innit?_ The half giant thought to himself as he observed the reactions of his charges. He smiled darkly beneath his beard at the thought and said to himself _Enjoy it while yeh can._

They arrived at a landing below the castle just before some of the students began to wilt - it was an uncommonly warm day for the Scottish highlands, nevermind the time of year. Thence they were led to a large hall with a vaulted ceiling and were met by Deputy Headmistress McGonagall. Hagrid, his duties for the night discharged, disappeared through a large set of double doors, which, had the children been paying attention, revealed the remainder of the student body of Hogwarts. However, their attention was arrested by the woman before them.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory and spend free time in your house common room.

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honour. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smart yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.

"I will return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly." With that, she spun about with a flourish of her tartan cloak and disappeared through the same doors which Hagrid had made his escape.

In McGonagall's brief absence, the students-to-be speculated about the exact nature of the sorting process. The claims ranged from the reasonable to the absurd. One of the more outrageous came from a toothy, bushy haired witch that none of her fellows knew the name of "I heard that we had to put on something called beer goggles and duel the defense professor!" she exclaimed to her neighbors, while she was soundly ignored.

Soon the rampant conjecture was put to an end by the reemergence of professor McGonagall. "We're ready for you. Follow me." She said in a businesslike tone, turning around even as she said it. The students followed her as quickly as they could, making a haphazard but workable queue as they did so.

The room they entered dwarfed the hall from which they came. There were dozens of round tables, arranged in 4 rows going the length of the chamber, around them were seated witches and wizards of school age in black robes of various trim colors. The colors seemed to segregate from each other quite religiously. The hall was lighted by many thousand small, darting flames of great apparent heat and intensity, if the reaction of one red-trim-robed student was anything to go by. The ceiling appeared to be a perfect, real-time reflection of the sky above it. "I wonder how they got it to do that." the bushy haired witch from earlier mused to no one in particular, not that anyone was listening, of course.

The nervous 11-year-olds quickly proceeded through the neatly arranged tables to emerge at a raised dais, with its own table, which seated what looked to be the entire staff of the school. The waiting children, however, were not left much time to ponder their potential instructors, as soon as they were assembled, McGonagall told them all "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted. But first, the sorting hat's annual song."

Before any of the new Hogwartians could begin to wonder what on Earth she could mean by a hat's song, their questions were answered by the hat on the stool they had passed on their way to the platform moved of its own accord and began to sing in the most God-awful voice any of them had ever heard, including Fay Dunbar who had heard a banshee once.

 _Oh you may not think I'm pretty,_

 _But don't judge on what you see,_

 _I'll eat myself if you can find_

 _A smarter hat than me._

 _You can keep your bumbling bowlers,_

 _Your top hats, dandy's delight,_

 _For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

 _And I can cap them all._

 _There's nothing hidden in your head_

 _The Sorting Hat can't see,_

 _So try me on and I will tell you_

 _Where you ought to be._

 _You might belong in Gryffindor,_

 _Where dwell the brash of deed,_

 _Their impulsiveness, gall, and patronizing_

 _Set Gryffindors apart;_

 _You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

 _Where they are meek and slavish,_

 _Those unsure Hufflepuffs are cowardly_

 _And suited only for a life toil;_

 _Or yet in bookish Ravenclaw,_

 _if you've an obsessive mind,_

 _Where those of social skills defunct,_

 _Will always find their kind;_

 _Or perhaps in Slytherin_

 _You'll make your two-faced friends,_

 _Those insidious folks use any means_

 _To achieve their ends._

 _So put me on! Don't be afraid!_

 _And don't get in a flap!_

 _You're in safe hands (though I have none)_

 _For I'm a Thinking Cap!_

The end of the song was met with dead silence.

After several awkward moments, the Deputy Headmistress seemed to remember herself and began calling the students out to be sorted.

"Bones, Susan!" she listed off after several others had been sorted. The hat's deliberations were brief, just long enough for a pair of old friends to greet each other, which is, after a fashion, what occurred. "Hufflepuff!" The hat cried shortly, to no one's surprise.

Next of note was "Dursley, Dudley!" who approached the stool on which the hat sat with no small amount of trepidation. He, however, was able to put a brave face on as he picked up the singing hat and put it on his head, immediately sitting down for fear he'd disorient himself and miss the stool entirely.

The hat's effect was instantaneous and worrying, he… felt it, burrowing about in his brain. Suddenly, a.. voice materialized in his mind _Ah, a muggleborn. Let me hopefully not be the first to welcome you to the wizarding world._ After a pause to process the fact that he was "speaking" to a hat, he became aware of his rudeness and the hat's amusement _Ah, uhm. Thanks?_

 _Don't mention it._ The hat replied _Now, on to the business at hand - your sorting._ Before Dudley could ask how they were to go about it, he felt recollections of his life flash past his mind's eye. The sensation stopped after but a moment, although it certainly felt like much longer. _Hmm. I see an intense loyalty to your parents for how they've cared for you, as well as a readiness to extend that allegiance to worthy allies. Hufflepuff would do you well. Ravenclaw would as well, very well indeed. Your thirst for knowledge is… unquenchable._ Here the hat paused, as if it were communicating with an outside intelligence. Some of this conversation Dudley caught, but none of it made any sense to him, just snippets about something called a Moot and some talking trees.

After several minutes of this, the hat seemed to finish its other conversation and broke its silence _I've just had the most enlightening conversation with the Bearded Tree - terribly bright chap, him, if a bit slow-spoken - and we are in agreement - your latent tendencies are much more strongly Ravenclaw. As such, I suggest you seek out your friends from the Summer as soon as you are able._

Understandably confused, Dudley replied _The Bearded Tree?_

 _Ah, yes, well, I'm not quite at liberty to say. In any event…_ "Ravenclaw!"

Dudley removed the hat at its declaration and moved toward a blue-trim dominated area of the hall. As he did so, there was a smattering of polite applause from wearing robes of different trim, while a disproportionately loud noise was being made by those in blue. He noted as he sat amongst his peers that his own robes had changed to match. _Magic is_ wicked! He thought as he did so.

While he was being welcomed and congratulated by his new house, the sorting continued. He remained only politely interested in the lion's share of the goings on, really only caring about those he had befriended before coming here.

Dudley perked up as the first of the L's was announced. Soon after came "Longbottom, Neville!" who was sorted as expeditiously as Susan had been. Into "Gryffindor!" of course. He was greeted with particular fervor, even for those sorted into that house. As he sat, Neville made sure to make eye contact with both Dudley and Susan, offering each a broad smile and a subtle wave. They both followed suit, not having long to wait for "Malfoy, Draco!"

The sorting of the third and final Mootchild went as the two before it had, ending with a eminently expected "Slytherin!" followed by a chipper Malfoy heir striding towards the green-clad sector of the hall as if he owned it and glad-handing like a pro when he arrived. He opted for a wink at his fellow Mootmates in lieu of a wave, which was returned by each with great amusement.

Dudley busied himself getting acquainted with his housemates, even those at other tables, not paying much heed to the sorting until, shortly, he heard "Potter, Harry!"

Harry had been paying little interest to the sorting except to sneer at those sorted into Slytherin. His new friend Ron had told him they weren't to be trusted. Anyone with such a love of food and distaste for snakes and muggles was certainly to be relied upon. His attention was arrested, however, when his own name was called. Upon hearing it, he waddled forward and donned the cap.

 _Jesus!_ "Hufflepuff! For the love of God, Hufflepuff!" The hat gasped out, thoroughly disgusted at the mind it had just encountered.

Harry quickly removed the hat at its mental exclamation and uncertainly made his way to the seats housing those with yellow-trimmed robes. He was alone in receiving no applause, despite the fame of his name.

Fortunately, Ron was also sorted into the house of the meek and weak-willed. At least he'd have one friend amongst the supposedly loyal house.

The sorting came to a close shortly thereafter and McGonagall removed the implements of its achievement. As she did so, an ancient man with a vacant look arose from his place in the middle of the head table and limped his way to the podium that was most certainly not there a minute ago.

Upon his arrival, he drew his wand, turned to face the staff, and began to wave it like a conductor's baton. Suddenly, the odd show became racey when the back of his periwinkle robes flew up, revealing an incredibly pale and wrinkled posterior.

At this juncture, a staff member appeared from nowhere and gently guided the aged Headmaster away, calling, as she did so, over her shoulder "Enjoy the feast!" at which a sumptuous meal appeared on the tableware before them. Not ones to argue, the students tucked in.

The feast was full of the merriment of old friendships renewed and new ones being forged, not to mention delectable food. But, as all good things must, it came to an all-too-soon end. At the terminus, the prefects instructed their housemates to follow them to their dorms, and proceeded to file out of the Great Hall. However, before Dudley could make it far, he was waylaid by Susan, Neville, and Draco. "We need to talk." Susan said in a tone that brooked no arguing.

Not knowing enough to be terrified of a girl saying that to him, Dudley followed the three to a nearby classroom that looked as though it had been unoccupied for quite some time. Once the group was ensconced within, the 3 Mootmates rounded on their friend, who, intrigued, asked "What's this all about?"

Neville, representing the oldest line currently serving on the Moot, spoke up "We, the 3 of us, that is, belong to an… order of sorts. It's called the Moot of Four."

Draco continued before Dudley could get a word in edgewise "It's a society at the highest levels of politics - the real power in this country, you see. It's always had at least one representative from each of the 4 houses, always, that is, until now."

"Why? What's happened to the representative from Ravenclaw?" Dudley inquired, not quite liking where this was going. He had no interest in playing politics as an 11-year-old.

Neville adopted a look of mild regret, tinged with mystery "I'm sorry, mate, but we can't really say more here." At this, he removed a knut from his robes with a modified version of the Hogwarts crest on the side facing up and held it out. "So, are you in?"

"I… I'll have to think about it."

Neville smiled up at him at that and said "Good answer. Put your hand on the coin."

He did so, and immediately the other 2 followed suit. As soon as they did so, Dudley felt a… pull behind his navel and was sucked through a dizzying vortex of light.


	5. Chapter 5

The sensation ceased abruptly as the quartet was deposited in a small clearing in a choked, untamed forest. Dudley, unused to whatever that was, crashed to the ground on arrival. The other 3 clamored to pick him up.

Once he had regained his footing, Neville looked him dead in the eye and said "What you're about to see never goes outside the people you see here."

"Yeah… sure. No problem."

Neville grimaced a bit and replied "I'm afraid that won't do. You'll have to make a magical vow."

"A magical vow? How?"

"Grab your guitar." Neville said as he pulled out a miniature version of the drum kit that Dudley had seen him pick up at Ollivander's during the summer. He placed the tiny set on the ground and prodded it with one of his drumsticks. It grew to normal size before their very eyes, stool and all. Once that was done, Neville sat down and told Dudley "Now, just repeat after me."

"I swear on me mum, I will inform no one not present at this or any future Moot through any means of the whereabouts of this conclave or of the contents of this or future Moots."

After Dudley repeated the vow, the pair's instruments glowed, their magic accepting the promise. Afterward, Neville reshrunk his drums and pocketed them while Dudley slung his guitar behind his back.

Their magical foci appropriately stowed, the group set off behind Draco further into the forest. They trooped onwards, making good time and beginning to enjoy the sounds of the nightlife and the clarity of the skies, when suddenly a Rodent Of Unusual Size leapt out at them. It landed heavily on Susan as Draco cried out "Inconceivable!"

He and Dudley pulled on the strap of their respective 8-strings so they could start casting, Dudley with some uncertainty as he had never actually done a spell on purpose before. Neville, meanwhile was still fumbling with his kit in his pocket. Once he managed to get it out, however, he proceeded to drop it, effectively removing him from combat until he was able to recover the magical instrument.

Draco opened with what appeared to be the intro to Jimi Hendrix's _Purple Haze_. At this, a bolt of orange sparks flew from the head of his guitar at the ROUS, flinging it off of Susan's battered chest. Seeing his compatriot's success, Dudley opted for the oldest, most complicated classical Italian piece he knew: Allesandro Besozzi's trio for 2 violas and basso at an accelerated tempo, incorporating the bass where he could by tapping.

The result was mildly catastrophic.

There was a smoking crater where there had previously been a moderately sized tree, several others were on fire, being eaten away by acid, or missing limbs. Draco's bogey's had somehow been animated and were attacking him with a high degree of prejudice. The ROUS was hanging by its intestines, which had wrapped around a tree trunk, which was bereft of _all_ of its limbs, in a double helix pattern.

The upside was that when he had knocked Neville to the ground, the taller boy's hand had landed on his shrunken drumset.

Unfortunately, the sudden burst of highly odd but strangely destructive magic had exhausted Dudley to the point that he collapsed under a rather garish but quite old oak tree that appeared to be a different color after every juncture of its limbs. It was also spouting bubbles that were an alarming shade of green.

Draco returned after several minutes of haranguing by his mucus to find Neville kneeling over Susan and an out-cold Dudley. "Well, this has been a disaster. Shall we crack on, then?" he addressed the group at large.

"And just how are we going to do that?" Susan remarked saucily.

Frowning at his friend's smarminess, he continued gamely "Well, are you in a state to walk? With assistance, of course." smiling at the last, having regained his typical suave demeanor. He then held out his hand to help her up while Neville hauled on her other arm. Bending a bit, Draco maneuvered Susan's arm over his shoulder to support her on the remainder of the trek through the woods.

Seeing Susan secured in Draco's arms, Neville tottered off to the comatose Dudley. He shifted him about, getting the guitar into the best position he could, and picked him up in a fireman's carry. This done, he made his way over to the others, the strain already noticeable in his face and carriage.

The remainder of their journey was without incident, if strenuous. Soon, however, they made free of the clamoring limbs and entered an obviously man made clearing. In the middle of the glade was a dais, made of a shining, black material. On the pedestal was inscribed a large circle, circumscribed with arcane runes of unknown provenance. And standing all about the circle were 6 witches and wizards.

The first to address the newcomers was Lucius Malfoy, the Penultimate Snake. "What on Earth happened?"

"ROUS." said his son, simply.

"Inconceivable!"

Neville chimed in "You know, you both keep saying that word. I don't think it means what you think it means."

Dudley chose that moment to regain consciousness with a loud groan, prompting the remaining Mootmates to spring into action. Amelia and the reclusive Edward Bones saw to Susan's injuries while Augusta Longbottom administered a Pepper-Up potion to the exhausted Dudley. After several minutes Susan, her injuries healed, got up and thanked Draco with an uncharacteristically demure hug. At the same time Dudley was saying "Thanks, mate." to Neville who he had learned had carried him for nearly a mile after he passed out.

The quartet then approached the group at large, just as an older man who bore a passing resemblance to Draco was saying "... reintroduce hippogriffs to the area."

Augusta broke into the discussion at that point "Shall we get down to business, then?"

All eyes swivelled towards the new arrivals as the Preeminent Snake said winningly "Ah, yes of course. Everyone, assemble on the Circle." The children were about to ask where they were supposed to go and what they were to do once they got there when Neville, who was the most aware of the 4 at the time noticed and pointed out the engraving at their feet, which depicted a Badger. Thus informed, they spread out in search of vacant engravings that matched their house. Notably, Dudley was the only occupant of a Raven slot.

Once everyone was ensconced on their appropriate symbol, the Penultimate Gryffin, Frank Longbottom smiled over at his son and began "We shall, at this time, summon the Hall. This is done by performing an ancient ritual called, appropriately enough, The Calling. It is fairly simple, so just follow after us, children."

With that, the denizens of the Moot drew up the hoods on their heavily cowled robes and thrust their right hands into the Circle and cried out imperiously "Moot!" then withdrew their hands and, again cried "Moot!" only to immediately return the hand to the Circle and shout "Moot!" a third time whilst flapping their hand about haphazardly. After the second thrust, they returned their limbs, executed a quarter turn, alternating which direction they faced, which caused no small amount of confusion for the youngest members of the Moot who had thus far kept up admirably. Once everyone was settled, they dipped down, facing each other in pairs. Then they rose and did another quarter turn, in the same direction as before and did a little jig - what looked like a brief example of celtic river dancing (the sound of drums and pipes inexplicably filled the air at this point). The jig complete, a third turn was performed, after which the dipping maneuver was repeated. One final turn returned the group to their original orientation.

This process was repeated for each the left hand, both feet, head, posterior, and, finally, the entirety of one's person. At the end of it all, the group held out their hands towards one another, palms touching where possible, and chanted thrice "Moot!" As the final "Moot!" died on the night air, bricks of the same material as the dais erupted from the ground and began assembling themselves into the walls and roof of a small chamber, with the dais as the foundation. Once the final bricks came to rest, the chamber expanded magically sevenfold into a spacious hall - the Moot.

Within the Moot was a large, octagonal table, each side with room enough for 2 to sit side by side luxuriously. Chairs - more like small thrones, really - were ready, waiting for the Moot to begin its business for the night. The remainder of the Moot was divided along the compass rose. To the North appeared to be a magical armory, complete with suits of armor of a silvery metal (mithril they were later told), swords, axes, shields of every description. There were staves and cloaks as well. In a place of honor there was a staff on a raised pedestal. It radiated… intelligence. Those new to the Moot decided that it certainly warranted closer inspection. However, the rest of the Moot drew their attention away.

To the East was a barracks, with several dozen "bunks" arranged in family units of 10. There were 4 such units. The bunks were, in fact, California King sized 4-posters, complete with privacy wards and cushioning and dreamless sleep charms. Dudley supposed, and the others knew, that this place could play host to the Moot and all of the component families in times of need. _Not a bad way to go, if you have to rough it, I suppose_. He thought as his eyes traveled southward where the most impressive library he had ever seen lay. The moment he claps his eyes to it, he almost abandoned decorum and rush over to the stacks of books to sequester himself behind a mountain of arcane texts.

Something in his expression must have given him away, because Amelia smirked and said "My, but you are the stereotypical Ravenclaw."

He blushed at that and continued his inspection of the hall. In the West was a series of shelves with jars and vials, as well as several workstations complete with bunsen burners and cauldrons, for potioneering, he presumed.

The young Mootmates completed their inspection of the Hall and returned their gaze to the center of the Moot, where the elder Mootmates were seated around the Obsidian Lectern. Seeing this, they moved hastily to join them.

Once all had become comfortable, the most senior of the sitting Preeminents, Orion Black waved his hands over the table and spoke in something resembling a mangled form of latin. As he completed the short ritual, an image of a great tree projected itself above the Lectern and began speaking.

The tree told of his race, the ents, and of their home world, which they left quite on accident through a void which appeared suddenly over their home, called Fanghorn. He told of their trials on Earth and how they reordered the world to suit them, growing great forests out of marshes and plains and of levelling mountain ranges entire. He told of the end of their power, of the Great Wander, where they set out to reach the peoples at the ends of this new world and imbue those they could with the last of their dying might - the wizards. He told of his own journey here, to this place, where he gave himself over after forming the Moot, and of his avatar, that which we call the Bearded Tree.

He then went on to tell the history of this Moot. How it formed the Ministry of Magic, and the Wizengamot before it. Of its role in the creation of the International Confederation of Wizards. The tree also detailed the actions of the Moot as it regarded the great turning points in history, from the rise and fall of the Roman empire to the Crusades and French Revolution to the World Wars and the War on Terror.

The narrative riveted all listeners, even those who had heard it twice before (the initiation of a new class of the Moot was conducted only once each generation, on the night after the final member of the class was sorted. In recent generations, the families involved had organized it so that their inheritors were born in the same year, both to streamline the process and to provide added camaraderie. At the end of the tale, Augusta stood and addressed the Moot.

"Now that the Observance is at an end, our newest members know our history and our purpose. We have much to attend to, but first, young master Dursley has a decision to make."

With that, every eye was solidly fixed on him. Understandably nervous, his only response was to visibly gulp.

By way of prompting, Orion stood and sang out:

" _Are you in or out?_

 _Gotta know without a doubt_

 _I'm the one you need for a noble deed_

 _I'm the best, success is guaranteed_

 _Are you men or mice?_

 _Take a slice of my advice_

 _You want a fearless leader, one that's strong and stout?_

 _Better come with me_

 _Are you in or out?_ "

Emboldened by the song, which had for generations served as a rallying cry of the Moot, Dudley nodded stoutly at Augusta, signalling his assent. Knowing what would be required of him, he stood and slung his guitar into place. Seeing his action, Susan, who was next to him and actually did know what was to come, put her hand on his arm and informed him "You won't be needing that just yet." Befuddled, Dudley complied regardless.

After his guitar was safely stowed, Susan held out her hand for Dudley to help her ascend onto the Lectern, and helped him in turn. Once the 4 initiates were on the table, they aligned with the compass rows. Northward faced Neville were lay the tools of war. To the South did Dudley face, staring down the implements of learning. West was the way that Draco faced, for in that direction lay the means by which power was so often got. Lastly, towards the East, whence came the Sun, Susan's gaze lay upon the hearth and home of the Moot in time of direst need. Thus arrayed, they did dance the Macarena in time with the rhythmic chanting of the initiated Mootmates.

Once the ritual was complete, the inductees clamored down and regained their seats. Once all were settled, Augusta took the floor once more "Now before we begin in earnest, there is something you children must know: the wizarding world is at war." This was met with the expected level of shock, except for Dudley who had been a part of the wizarding world for all of a handful of hours and was in no position to make any claim about the general peacefulness of this new society.

Once the 3 had regained their composure, the Preeminent Longbottom continued "This meeting will bring you up to speed with the status of the war and our, now your, role is in it. Understood?" This was met with a chorus of "Yes, madam."'s after which she addressed the Penultimate Malfoy "How go your entreaties with the Ministries on the continent?"

"Well, Dowager Longbottom," Lucius replied "both the French and the Germans have agreed to establish permanent sanctuaries staffed by Aurors in the mountains the giants inhabit. If the enemy moved to mobilize them, they'll be in a position to intervene."

"Good. With any luck that will soon be one less resource we have to watch to keep out of His hands." She turned to Orion and inquired of him "What of the movers and shakers among the conservative party?"

"It is as expected, certain families have come to me with some rather interesting propositions about how to support His return. The usual suspects - Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, Dunbar, even Patil, new as he is to the British Isles." He replied with distaste "I've done what I could to redirect their attentions to less fruitful pursuits."

"How you you gauge your success this time? I don't of course mean to impugn your past efforts in this regard."

"I have the historically Slytherin set hunting down wraiths in the Vatican. The others are researching 'horcruxes.'"

The adults around the table smirked at the ruse they had so carefully constructed as a society so long ago. It had ensnared many a foolhardy Dark Lord in the making - the promise of immortality was often too alluring to pass up. Invariably, those who pursued such means turned up on the Moot's radar. They were then dealt with before they could become a problem.

The children, who were unaware of the conspiracy, merely glanced around confusedly. The adults, of course, took notice, but after a subtle look to their unofficial leader, the Dowager Longbottom, who nodded with equal shrewdness, shook her head. This piece of news was one that could wait to be revealed.

Carrying on with the proceedings, Augusta shifted her attention to the Bones'. "Amelia, how is the new appropriations bill with an increased Department of Magical Law Enforcement budget?"

"The bill is being amended in the Budget Committee as we speak. I ensured a more unsavory piece of fat figured prominently in the debate process. Our piece passed without much notice and should be safe from amendment."

"Excellent. Edward, how is Alastor responding to your advances in returning to train the influx of recruits we're expecting?"

The Preeminent Bones smiled at the mention of his longtime friend and partner in dark wizard hunting. "With predictable paranoia. I should be able to entice him with hints as to the identity of our adversary, if I may?"

Augusta looked around the table at the senior membership of the Moot, ascertaining their assent, which was given with economical nods. She added hers to Edward directly, which he reciprocated.

Lastly, Augusta turned to her son. "Is Nurmengard prepared for the Death Eaters we've detained?"

"It is. I'm sure Grindelwald will welcome the company" he said with a grim smile. "I trust that the 'transfer' plans are coming along nicely, Amelia?"

"They are." replied the Head of the Auror Force. "The current detainees will be hauled into a Ministry facility to be given health examinations as part of a rehabilitation program. The shipment containing all currently held Death Eaters will have an unfortunate 'accident' en route." She too smiled with a hint of mania as she thought of all the fun she would be able to have at the expense of her soon-to-be-exclusive inmates.

Amelia's macabre musings were interrupted as Augusta brought the meeting to a close. "Excellent. We are adjourned." She then turned toward the children in turn, the look being sufficient to keep them planted firmly in their seats.

Once the rest of the adults had dispersed, she beckoned them closer. Satisfied that they could hear her clearly, she began again "Now that you've seen the business of this Moot, it's time for you to learn your assignments." Her audience perked up noticeably at that, causing her to smile in a long-suffering manner. The exuberance of the young never ceased to surprise her, but it wouldn't do to have the younglings making a hash of things by their inexperience. "You all are obviously too young to engage in real Mootmissions, but you do have a noble and worthy task at hand: your schooling. Do well in class. Learn all that you can. Make friends and secure alliances. Be warned, however there are dangerous events surrounding Hogwarts this year."

This was met with a chorus of gasps "I can't reveal all, but we have certain information that indicates a man who has been possessed by Him is in the employ of the school. How He managed to fool Dumbledore is quite beyond me…"

As she trailed off, the children all gave each other worried looks. _Voldemort? In the school?_ they all thought. _This is bad news, indeed_.

The silence stretched uncomfortably as they waited for the Preeminent Longbottom to continue. When she did not, they, correctly, took it as a dismissal. However, as they turned to go, the Dowager spoke up "Dudley, dear, do stay back a moment." His friends turned to him and shrugged, not knowing what he was in for. They walked to and through the southern wall.

Once the others had disappeared, Dudley turned to the leader of the Moot. "What did you need, madam Longbottom?"

"Need? No, there is nothing that I need. What I want is for you to understand. I'm sure you must have questions."

"I - uh…" he stammered in reply.

"Close your mouth, it's unbecoming." she gave him a moment to comply and continued. "Now, take a moment and come up with something sensible."

He did so, and asked the question that had been on his mind from the get go "Where are the Ravenclaws? I saw that there weren't as many of them at Hogwarts, and there are none here. Why is that?"

"Ah, you've struck upon the sorest bone of contention among our order. Ravenclaw, as you now know, is esteemed for its love of knowledge for knowledge's sake and uncanny wisdom. Both of those characteristics feature in their exodus from wizarding Europe."

"You mean they all left?"

She nodded at that "Well, not all of them, but most. They could see that the war was going poorly for the Light and fled to continue their various pursuits free of the miasma of war. Among those who lead the movement to emigrate to America during the war with Voldemort was the Corner family, formerly the Ravens of the Moot. That is why there are no representatives from that House here now. You are all that there is - a new Dynasty of the Learned, with you as its patriarch."

"Wicked!" was his reply. His eyes immediately swept to the library. "Is there any sort of instruction in there? What are my responsibilities? Will I have to have children?" The last causing him to go green at the gills.

"There's time enough for that later, my dear. For now, run along to your friends, you wouldn't want to be caught out of bounds on your first day, would you?" she said, smiling at the bug-eyed look her last comment had garnered. He about-faced and scrambled from the hall determinedly, vanishing as he passed through the same wall the others had gone through.

The others of his generation in the Moot lay in ambush just outside the hall. They bombarded him with questions that he deflected with practiced ease, telling them that they really should be getting back to Hogwarts. This last seemed to get the group in gear, for they had all but forgotten the fact that they had just spent several hours travelling and attending the Moot.

They rushed back the way they had come, Susan almost vomiting at the sight of the ROUS strung up by its entrails. Once they made it to the spot they portkeyed into, they all put their hands to the coin and were sucked through time and space to the winged-boar gates of Hogwarts. They rushed back to the castle, all certain that they would be given a week's detention and put their houses in the red for house points. However, once they gained the entrance hall, they were met by a patrol of prefects who detained them, asking "How'd you get separated from the other firsties?"

Their questioner ignored their stammered responses and turned to his companion, a Gryffindor girl in her sixth year. "Go find a 'Puff and a Slytherin. Should be a patrol…" he paused, looking at his wristwatch, which had 24 named hands and what appeared to be the names of places throughout the castle instead of numbers. "at the kitchens, heading toward the staircase. Fetch them here, would you?"

They waited for the girl to return apprehensively, not quite knowing what was going on or why they hadn't been given detention yet. However, their fears were unfounded. They were paired with a prefect of their house once the other 3 made it to the entrance hall and sent to their respective dormitories. They waved to each other as they went their separate ways, each wondering when their detentions would be handed down.

The detentions never came.

The quartet arrived at their dorms unmolested and were instructed as to how they might gain entrance to them by the prefect escorting them before the upper year returned to his or her duties.

Dudley was lead up to the charms wing on the second floor and through a confusing warren of interconnected passageways. He finally arrived at a portrait of an older gentleman in a tweed jacket, smoking a pipe. The man had a laughing face framed by drooping ears and flyaway white hair. He smiled at their approach and posed a riddle "What have I got in my pocket?"

Dudley, smiled knowingly, his favorite books were the Lord of the Rings trilogy. "A ring, sir."

"Aha! You must be muggleborn. None of the purebloods ever get that."

Dudley just preened in response, pleased to get the riddle right. He drew in a deep breath to begin questioning the painting when the Prefect with him held up a hand. "All the muggleborns want to talk Mr. Tolkien's ears off when they first meet him, you can join the others in the morning. Now, in you get." he said, making a shooing motion.

Dudley obeyed as the portrait swung forward to admit him, blinking in surprise as a full common room greeted him. He was sure they had been gone for several hours. They must have been. _How could we have been gone for hours, but everything look as if we were only gone for a few minutes?_ he wondered. This merited a thorough investigation. Tomorrow. He was tired now, and his bed called out to him.

Unfortunately, he had no idea where that was. So, being the problem solver that he was, he scanned the room for anyone he recognized as a first year, spotting one immediately in the sparsely populated room. Dudley approached him and inquired "Hello again, mind telling me where the dorms are?"

"Sure," the boy replied "go over to the bookshelves over there and pull the bronze book on the 3rd row from the bottom. No one's gone in, yet, so you've got the run of the place."

Dudley did so, and the bookcase swung back into what he had thought was solid wall, but which turned out to be a spacious corridor, with doors lining each wall. He walked to the end of the row and selected the door on the left, going on instinct. As soon as his hand touched the doorknob, a nameplate with _Dudley Dursley_ on it appeared at eye level. He smiled at the fact that he'd be getting a room all to himself - a real one for the first time in his recollection - and opened the door to find his things, pet snake and all, already there.

He turned to a large four poster bed, ready to fall into it and deep into sleep. He rolled into the bed, drew the curtains and laid back, closing his eyes. Before he could begin to drift off, however, his snake (as yet nameless) slithered into bed and hissed at him. The strange thing was, the hissing sounded a whole awful lot like English.

He bolted upright at this revelation, nearly flinging the deadly serpent off the bed in the process. " _Master! Please, calm yourself. You act as though you've never talked to a snake before."_

 _Was that snake just giving me a dressing down?_ was all he had time to process before he fell into a dead faint.

Meanwhile, in the depths of the goblin nation's holdings in Tibet, a half giant reverently hoisted a silvery axe. Awed, he whispered " _Zigilburk."_ his eyes shining like a father who had just received his prodigal son after decades of estrangement.


	6. Chapter 6

Dudley's eyes snapped open suddenly, and he awoke to full awareness much more quickly than he could ever remember doing, even on Christmas. _Odd_. He thought, then he noticed the snake curled up next to him and remembered _talking_ to it the night before. However, before he could do anything, the snake spoke " _Good morning, master. It is pleasant to see you so… alert."_

 _Was that…_ amusement _? "You did… this to me?"_ He hissed back.

" _I did. Our resonance allows for many arcane methods of communication. There are certain tomes which I shall direct you to that detail the extent of known snake-enhanced Parselmagic."_

The snake seemed awfully bossy for a pet, but the prospect of books about magic of any kind was incredibly interesting to him, especially since it sounded like this form of magic was rare. " _I'm eager to learn. Tell me, do you have a name?"_

The snake responded with a sibilant hiss, which Dudley recognized as an identifier, but knew he would never be able to replicate. The blank look on his face must have given him away because the snake seemed to _sigh_ before continuing " _You may call me Alfred. I'm given to understand it is a mighty name among the servanthood of the just and righteous heroes of your culture."_

" _Did you just call me a 'just and righteous hero?'"_

The snake looked its master up and down with an appraising air " _Well, perhaps not_ yet."

" _Hey!"_ he said with mock offense. He had, after all, only been a wizard a day, by even the most generous of definitions.

" _Of course, we shall do everything within our power to see that you are trained up properly. Speaking of which, oughtn't you be running along now?"_

With that, the boy looked at his watch on the bedside table and let out a sigh of relief - he was well early for breakfast, yet. He had always been an early riser, a necessity when in servitude to a live-in tyrant, but he had doubts about adjusting to a new schedule. Those doubts now seemed unfounded, which pleased him more than it had any right to do.

He dressed quickly and made his way to the common room, where, fortuitously, there were some older years were leaving for breakfast. He jogged to catch up with them, greeting them merrily, and being greeted in kind.

Dudley paid special attention to his surroundings after being warned by his impromptu guides that the castle tended to change itself about with no apparent rhyme or reason. He thought it might be a good idea to look into it. Maybe make a map that he updated whenever the castle changed to try and find a pattern. It would be an interesting side project at the very least.

Thanks to the expert navigation of his companions, third years, he learned on the trek down, they arrived at the Great Hall in good time, beating most of the castle to breakfast. _Excellent, first pickings on the best stuff._ He thought as he spotted an open table with Over easy eggs, perfectly cooked bacon and sausage links, and home fries with an assortment of sauteed veggies. The smells alone could sustain a man dying of starvation. Probably.

He sat down and piled his plate with a reasonable portion of the heavy, odiferous food. A small helping of fruit, too, being health-conscious and all. He was joined by the other 3 Mootmates shortly, seamlessly joining in the tradition of inter-house companionship that had graced the castle since its inception, because rigorously enforcing ideological boundaries on impressionable children for the better part of a decade is a perfectly sound modus operandi and could in no way backfire on society by making it excessively partisan. *cough, cough.*

They were joined by Millicent Bulstrode, who accompanied Draco, and Lavender Brown who had walked down with Neville under the guidance of a pair of studious looking ginger twins.

Millicent was very tall, cutting an impressive figure next to the average height Draco. She had curly, brunette hair that nestled between her shoulder blades. Her facial features were strong, but not unattractive, still hiding under baby fat. Cold, calculating (or as much as an 11-year-old's eyes can be) eyes surveyed her surroundings with care.

Lavender was more the classical beauty with long, blonde hair and chocolate eyes that, in time, would wash away the convictions of any man she so pleased. However, as she could tell you better than just about anyone, a book's content can rarely be judged on its appearance. She was an avid reader and had an encyclopedic knowledge of magical herbs and fungi. She and Neville were deep in conversation about that subject when they arrived and remained so until they were forced to quit by the commencement of their first class.

The group, after exchanging salutations, tucked in. Their jovial conversation only interrupted by the arrival of each head of house, giving out their time tables. This shifted the majority of discussion to interested exchanges about who would be having which class when and with whom, except for Lavender and Neville, who were busily deliberating on the best techniques for cultivating Kadaver Cap, the magical strain of Death Cap.

The Mootmates and their companions dispersed early that morning, on account of their not being certain of the way and not wanting to be late for their first class at Hogwarts. This turned out to be exceedingly fortunate, because they missed out on the commotion that Harry's arrival in the Great Hall raised.

Harry and his new friend, Ronald, had slept in quite late and quite unintentionally. They made up for their lateness by foregoing the ablutions that civilized people consider the bare minimum for politeness, instead merely throwing on their robes from the night before and dashing down to make the most of what little time they had to glut themselves in the Great Hall.

Their lateness turned out to be Harry's undoing. If they had made the journey when the rest of the castle's occupants had, Harry would have been exposed to the collective fanaticism of his fangirls in reasonable quantities (he was saved from this the night before by the decorum that was expected on feast days - there were very strict rules regarding behavior on those days, and Filch adored "correcting" errors of propriety). However, he was instead exposed all at once to the rabid horde of admirers, which was almost exclusively female, with the exception of a seventh year flautist fang...er...boy.

The crowd of admirers descended upon him like the 8th plague of Egypt and began… expressing their affection for him for reasons he was wholly ignorant of. Their adulation took a darker turn when several of the more brazen and desperate took matters into their own hands, quite literally. And, of course by "matters" I do mean… well, you know.

This event would have become quite an ordeal for young Harry, had he not lucked out in his arm-flailing and chanced upon his wand. Grabbing it and yelling incoherently, he released a burst of accidental magic that scattered the crowd, knocking them to the ground. Once unencumbered, he won free of his fans, wand in hand, screeching "I swear on me mum, I'll never touch a girl again!" at the end of which, he felt a… drain and his wand's tip glowed pure white.

Meanwhile, Dudley and Susan, who started off their Hogwarts career with a dose of potions with Professor Snape, had arrived in the dungeons where the class was held for first and second year students. This was due to the need for high capacity ventilation systems for upper year work due to its dangerous nature, whereas the potions made by younger students were so elementary and safe that even the most egregious failure would result in nothing a quick " _Scourgify!"_ couldn't fix.

They arrived ahead of their classmates and filled the time before the professor arrived with idle chatter, making new acquaintances as they arrived in the corridor. The chatter died down as everyone became aware of the polished, sallow-skinned man approaching, wearing a smart combination of lab-coat, waist-coat, trousers and dragonhide boots. He smiled warmly at them down his hooked nose and greeted them "Good morning, children." Turning, he unlocked and opened the door, calling over his shoulder as he entered the lab "come along now!"

Outside, the young students scrambled to make a line and enter the classroom. The room was sparsely appointed with small tables, at each sat a pair of stools. There were name plates at each space. At the front of the room was a large, but utilitarian desk and a chalkboard stretching from on wall to the other, at which a piece of chalk was writing itself, transcribing the salient points of the upcoming lecture. Snape had made it to the front of the room and turned to face his audience by the time the last student had filed in from the hallway. "As you can see," he began "there are name plates at each station. If you would please find yours and take a seat. These will be your places for the duration of the term, and perhaps beyond if the pairing suits you."

He paused while his pupils hastily followed his directions. During that time the piece of chalk had completed the task he had assigned it and returned to the tray with a soft clink. Once the students had settled themselves, he launched into an informative and engaging lecture on the foundational principles of potioneering and basic precepts of arithmancy as they applied to potionmaking. With the basics well-covered, he moved on to the potion they would be brewing when next they met - the Boil Curing potion - including a summary of the ingredients, information on the properties of those ingredients, and how they interacted with one another.

Class was dismissed for the period by an odd ripping sort of sound that several muggleborns would recognize as the opening bars of Mötley Crüe's _Wild Side._ The children, engrossed as they were, had barely noticed the passage of time, and had to rush to pack their things and file out the door to go to their next class.

As the last of his pupils left, letting the door swing closed behind her, Snape allowed himself a small smile. _It does one quite... well to devote oneself to the task at hand so... fully,_ he mused. He really had become an exemplary instructor, despite his rocky start in the profession. He was almost fired on several occasions in those first few years for wallowing in loathing and self-pity, lashing out at undeserving targets, such as first year students. However, once he was made aware of his… shortcomings and general childishness (by his future wife, no less) he made a concerted and successful effort to excel in his work, so much so that he was widely regarded as the premiere instructor at Hogwarts by both students and faculty.

Dudley and Susan, alone among their peers, elected to spend their free period in the library while their housemates made their way to their respective common rooms. They studied for the remaining classes for the day, familiarizing themselves with the basics of the material. Afterwards, they attended the rest of their classes, alternating which class they were paired with with seemingly no pattern. All the while rumors of Harry Potter, the-boy-who-lived, and his truancy could be heard all around the castle, with increasing certitude and frequency.

Dudley made little of those stories, even if they were true, it wouldn't be even remotely out of character for his piggish cousin to be derelict in his duties so soon. A sentiment that, by dinnertime, he was quite weary of relaying.

Deciding he had had quite enough of it after the 4th interruption to his dinner by a perfect stranger, he hoovered his remaining food in a most unbecoming manner and huffed off to find his errant relative. He didn't have far to look. As soon as he was clear of the doors to the Great Hall, he spotted Harry. He was being pulled along by what looked like a rope of magical energy which had affixed itself to his ear, the other end of which was connected to the wand of the witch Dudley recognized as the head of Susan's house, Hufflepuff, one Pomona Sprout. _These names are quite curious - whoever heard of 'Sprout' being a surname?_ The unpleasant ginger, Ronald, was following in his wake.

He thought that her methodology was strange - he had firsthand knowledge of her typical practice with unruly students, having seen her dragging a second year by his ear through the castle earlier that day. However, his curiosity was soon sated as, by some miracle the deputy Headmistress had arrived just as the trio approached the doorway by which Dudley stood. The stern Transfiguration mistress spared him a brief glance and decided it wasn't worth it to deal with him at just that moment.

Unfortunately for Harry, this resulted in having a less-than-loyal witness to his rapidly approaching ignominy. McGonagall strode to Harry purposefully, obviously peeved that a first year would be so brash as to skip his entire first day's worth of lesson. Once she was in range, she reached out to grab his shoulders, only to be stopped short by some unseen force. She withdrew her hands, visibly miffed at what she was beginning to suspect was some sort of elaborate (for a pair of first years) prank. She made to secure the boy before her once more, only to again be rebuffed.

"Just like I told you earlier, Minerva - can't be touched by a woman." The matronly Herbology professor put in.

"Nonsense. I know of no magic which could do such a thing - no spell, no ritual, no potion, no enchanted item. Not specific to gender, anyway." She paused, quickly determining a simple test to the Hufflepuff head's hypothesis. "Mr. Weasley," she said with every the casual air of command native to those who wield it regularly "please, put your hand on Mr. Potter's shoulder." His response was to immediately move to follow her instructions. He paused on reaching his friend, looking at McGonagall. "Just as I did, quickly now." He complied, unimpeded.

The eyes of both professors shot up to meet one another. "Mr. Dursley, if you wouldn't mind." McGonagall intoned tightly. He moved forward readily, repeating the Ginger's unassuming feat. Flummoxed, the deputy Headmistress asked the obvious question "When did you last have physical contact with a female, Mr. Potter?"

The morning's traumatic events came to him instantly. "I was coming down to breakfast and…" here he trailed off, embarrassed and confused. These emotions were written on his face, plain as day, and the authoritarian facade melted from the faces of both women, who quickly ushered the boy away for more discreet inquiry.

At a loss, the remaining boys looked at each other for a moment of mutual ambivalence and went on the way - Dudley to sit with his Mootmates and their companions, and Ronald to bounce from one "full" Hufflepuff table to another until he found an empty one where he (and everyone else) could eat in peace.

While the rest of the school was luxuriating in the Great Hall, Harry and the two heads of house were discussing the events of the day - the mystifying forcefield, his complete absence from all classes, and the lynchpin of it all - the mobbing on his way to breakfast. Through careful questioning and a judicious application of legilimency, the pair were able to ascertain the nature of what had transpired - a boy, surrounded by amorous, clutching strangers, not used to his power and certainly not in full control of it, blasts away his harassers and, unknowingly, swears a magical vow to never again touch a woman.

There were plenty of tears that night, from all involved parties. Really, who could blame them?

Meanwhile, in Poolewe, a village of such surpassing normalcy and insignificant size that the name would scarcely be recognized more than a town over, a cobbler of great age was closing shop for the evening and heading home to his cottage in the foothills. He never made it. Instead, he met a stranger on the way. This interloper would have caused quite a stir had any but its intended prey seen it that night, as it was of truly immense proportions. Other than that, however, the cobbler never knew, for, as soon as the man became aware of the cobbler's awareness of him, he reached into his overcoat - really, too warm by far for this time of year, don't you think? - and pulled out a ratty, pink umbrella from which flashed a subtle, red light.

The next thing the old man knew, he was in a forest far from his home (the night air was decidedly cooler and less damp, to say nothing of the distinct lack of salinity on the breeze). He rose as soon as he regained his bearings and began to turn about to get the lay of the land. Halfway through his survey, he froze. Before him was what appeared to be a large, animatronic spider with milky eyes - the kind he remembered seeing on his lone trip to America, where he visited Disney World with his grandchildren. He laughed at his own expense for believing the thing was real, when, all of a sudden, it spoke in an awful, deep, croaky voice "Feast, my children!" And feast they did.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N For this chapter, music is essential to the full experience, and, as good of a writer as I like to think I am, I'm simply not up to the task of describing the songs and do them any justice. That being said, there is a solution - youtube. I suggest you open the links beforehand and pause the videos until their respective notations come up in the body of the story. (Remove any spaces)**

 **1** **www. youtube** **watch? v=n_qbG JuxCYY**

 **2** **www. youtube watch? v=QUILw RgAUFg**

 **3** **www. youtube watch? v=aiRn3 Zlw3Rw**

Over the next several weeks, the students settled into a routine. The Mootmates in particular were thriving in every course, but each had their specialties - Neville was, in practice and theoretical knowledge, preeminent of the year at herbology, perhaps the school as a whole, and was subsequently a quite gifted potioneer; Draco could have easily taught the history of magic lessons to much greater effect than Binns and had a knack for Charms; Susan, as expected from the niece of the Head Auror, was the defense specialist; Dudley, as a good spatial thinker with a nearly photographic memory, was a natural at transfiguration. None of their group much cared for the stars, beyond broadly romantic notions of the universe's vastness. Still, between the four of them, they held the top spot in every subject, with none of them falling outside the top 10 in any area (the closest being Dudley in history of magic, him being a first generation magical and all).

As September faded, Draco brought up the subject of magical etiquette one evening during dinner, citing the impending Halloween Ball as grounds for Dudley's education. He explained this education would be practical in nature. When pressed, he revealed all: "We're going to have a formal dinner, just us."

Doing the arithmetic much more quickly than his magical peers by virtue of the importance muggle education places on the skill, Dudley quickly protested that the table would be badly unbalanced (if in more numerous, less eloquent words). Draco looked briefly at a loss, but was saved by an eager and quick-thinking Neville, who had become quite close to Lavender through their mutual obsession with flora both magical and mundane, suggested without missing a beat that they include the girls that had taken to regularly joining them for meals - Lavender and Millicent.

Finding no other way to wriggle out of it, Dudley silently acquiesced. Susan and Neville, however, were visibly gratified by the turn of events. The Moot parted ways after all was decided, Neville and Draco tasked with informing their housemates of the event.

The dinner was held on a Friday evening, the 19th of October. It was chaperoned by the Penultimate Malfoy and his wife, Narcissa, a ravishing beauty of the Most Crotchety and Demented house of White. Dinner was a 7 course meal, specially prepared by the Hogwarts elves (the dinner comprised of an asparagus custard tart; followed by baked potato and leek soup; then a turbot fillet with pearl barley, burnt cauliflower, tomato and a garam masala sauce; interposed between the fish and main was a hearty, home-baked loaf of wheat-and-oat bread, liberally buttered; the main course was of braised lamb shanks, with a red cabbage slaw; a very green summer salad followed the main course; finally came a flummery pudding to cap the meal, which was paired with an excellent, if young, red Bordeaux for the adults and sparkling grape juice for the youngsters. If you were wondering…)

Conversation flowed naturally, as it is wont to do among good friends, despite the stilted atmosphere formality inevitably brought. Neglecting the encouragement of the chaperones, of course. Once dinner had concluded and the boys in their nervousness could stall no longer, the "band" (suits of renaissance armor with period instruments) entered through a passageway that none of the human guests knew of previously. As the animate outfits arranged themselves innocuously (or as much so as metal suits can), the young, male Mootlings drug their feet, while their dates and the chaperoning couple enlisted all of their considerable wiles to "encourage" the boys' participation in the dancing that was nigh.

Eventually, the pro-dancing faction won the day. However, little actual dancing was accomplished, for only Draco knew beforehand the sort of dances that would be performed at a real ball. What followed was a stereotypically awkward tutoring session in formal dancing, with much stepping-on of toes and not a few complete crashes. Regardless of the soreness that would await them come morn, all present greatly enjoyed themselves, even if a particular young man was less than pleased with his foisted-on date.

After the consensus was reached (marching orders were handed down) that it was bedtime (the party did, after all, consist primarily of 11-year-olds) the party went their separate ways. Before parting for the night, however, Dudley felt he needed to air his grievances. He made the ultimately poor decision of unloading his rancor on Draco, who was rather nearer to his parents than would prove beneficial to Dudley's health. He exclaimed in the least subtle stage whisper that Hogwarts had seen in decades "At least your date was pretty." with great petulance and a petty pout. Instead of offering his sympathy like Dudley hoped and expected, Draco went sheet-white and looked over Dudley's shoulder.

Behind Draco, Lucius' nostrils flared ever-so-slightly, the only indication of the affront he now bore. His wife was even more discreet, showing no outward signs of her displeasure, not even a tightening around the eyes. Behind Dudley, however, a much more spectacular show was on display. Millicent, having parted with her female friends for the night, was making her way to Draco, to accompany him to the Slytherin dormitories. She had just breached hearing range of Dudley's "whisper" when it was uttered.

She took it rather well, all things considered.

It came to Dudley's attention the following morning just how well.

The Moot, as was their wont, took breakfast that Saturday morning at the same time as they did on weekdays (the better to study). They were not joined by either Lavender or Millicent, who both preferred to sleep in a touch on weekends. Nothing unusual there. Dudley did, however, notice that Draco seemed a bit miffed about something, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of what it might be. He put such considerations by the wayside and focussed on his bangers and mash.

After they had finished both food and social consumption for the morning (a regular rotation of visiting soon-to-be sycophants and more useful allies had established itself during mealtimes) they headed up to the library as per usual to knock out whatever work they had yet to manage from the previous week. It was not to be this Saturday.

They were waylaid by what appeared to be a shockingly beautiful, 3-years-older version of Millicent. This goddess of soon-to-be-revealed martial prowess introduced herself as Melissa, Millicent's sister, her senior by 3 years. After the pleasantries had been successfully observed, she focussed her attention of her prey, Dudley, who was not currently in possession of his lower jaw. "Pick your jaw up off the floor and follow me." she commanded, with thinly veiled contempt and wholly revealed wrath.

Dudley seemed not to pick up on the tonal and facial cues, however, and took off after her at a steady trot to keep up with the older girl's stride.

Melissa lead the seemingly bewitched first year up several flights of stairs and through a handful of corridors, which, of course, Dudley wasn't paying nearly good enough attention to to retrace his steps. Finally, after 10 minutes or so of traipsing across the castle, they arrived at their destination - an unused and derelict classroom, adorned only by a solitary desk on which sat a pair of very thick, leather gloves.

Melissa walked over and put on a pair of the odd-looking gloves, the pair was significantly more worn than the remaining set. As she set to her work, she invited him to join in, saying "Put those on." brusquely. He complied with the haste of a child who has realized that he's in a great deal of trouble and the best way to survive is to simply do as one's told. He had a fair amount of difficulty getting the strange handwear to function properly, and at turns required the assistance of his soon-to-be teacher. Finally, however, the task was achieved and his boxing gloves, for he at last recognized them for what they were, were secured to his fists.

Before he could admire his handiwork too much, Melissa got down to business. She kicked the desk to the wall, sending up a summer's worth of dust in the process. That done, she addressed Dudley once more "My baby sister didn't like what you said last night. Cried all night, she did. I don't like it when my little sister cries. In fact, I've taken it upon myself to ensure that she cries as little as possible while I'm still here." At this, she raised her arms to the side, as an impresario of bygone days, and smiled. She smiled the most vicious, primal smile Dudley had ever seen, and he knew he never wanted to see such a smile again in all his life. As he reached this decision, she continued her monologue "That leads us to you - the cause of her tears. Consider me your tutor, your tutor in… etiquette. Seems the lesson didn't quite take last night, did it?" She cocked her head to the side in a grim parody of inquisitiveness and smiled that gruesome smile from before. He made as if to speak, but she beat him to the punch, snapping "Defend yourself!" before he could get a word in edgewise.

She came on like a hurricane, a storm of raining fists so fast he could hardly keep track, despite the harp, blossoming pain that accompanied each strike.

The first blow was a mere probing shot, a quick jab to the boy's midsection, still layered with the fatty tissues of youth yet to be outgrown. Yet it was strong for all its swiftness, forcing ice-eyed Dudley back two paces full, sending rippling waves of force made manifest through his torso. Winded, he retreated. Circling his antagonist, he regained what strength he may and all the while her gruesome grin gained in its morbid glee.

While her prey recovered, she danced her dance with death, springing forcefully from foot to fleeting foot. She waited with great patience, it wouldn't do to rush, not when her vengeance she enjoyed so much. When finally he came, onrushing with great haste, she stilled herself and once more made manifest the dance. Her mastery was such that his ploy was preordained, he came in high, where manly strength was best. This move foreseen, she ducked and dove, a dervish was she made, and, springing forth, made hay with her right fist. Contact. Worn leather met unlined face and such was the power behind the punch that long-limbed Dudley did do a pirouette. Ruined was the cheek whose line decried the ignobility of his birth, wrecked inside and out, as he spun left-to-right, a rope of blood and bile swinging in the wake.

Mercy forgotten, malevolent Melissa now gave herself more fully to the game that was afoot. She strove with a stride like Atlas, covering the interposing ground betwixt her and her prey. Once accomplished, she unfurled her off-strength hand in a lightning strike to blow his wicked head. The hit was clean, and two-for-one, he hit his head once more on the classroom wall, where none had been before. Melissa smiled again, the castle had joined her cause.

Her assault abated, her prey, weak-kneed arose and, shambling forward, gave one last heaving blow. She, loosing her martial joy in laughter ringing far, evaded the strike, and levied one of her own. Low she swept, and in reply did damage his inner thigh, the blow to which sent Dudley drunkenly aside. Without pause she came on again, thrusting up for follow through, and again former and current flesh met with a thundering impact, knocking blood and bone laced spittle in an arcing path. The upper cut removed him from his feet, and he did land prone, his eyes to heaven bent. She descended upon him and let fly a flurry of her fists, and in the end, his face bore little resemblance.

Her work finished, Melissa arose and, with nary an over-the-shoulder glance, left him to report his misfortune to the head nurse, Madam Pomfrey. Behind her was the shuddering mass of pummeled flesh that bore the name Dudley, his own blood slowly dripping on his face from where it had splattered on the ceiling after she punched him under the chin.

Dudley recovered his senses sometime later, lying in what he imagined a hospital bed would be like if he were living in the aftermath of the second world war. However, for all its simplicity of appearance, it was remarkably comfortable, yet unaccountably restrictive. _Must be some sort of charm or enchantment,_ he reasoned. The first thing he noticed after the bed was his friends' presence. The 3 other Mootmates were arranged adjacent to his bed in chairs that looked much more comfortable than they had any right to.

The next thing he noticed was the pain. It was tremendous, if he had the breath for it, he would most certainly have screamed. As it was, the other occupants of the infirmary quickly took note of his changed condition and made haste to inform the matron of the latest development.

The nurse came tearing out of her offices as soon as she saw the children, assuming correctly that they came bearing news of her latest patient. She was, in equal measures, hawkish and mother hen-like - her tendency to busy herself with her patients and mother them only interrupted when she detected some threat to her patients' recovery, at which point she would, with prejudice, eliminate the threat.

She approached her charge with her famous bustle and a constant stream of platitudes she really ought to know were never heeded. She proceeded to administer numerous potions, interspersed with much wand-waving and incantations. After a solid half-hour of uninterrupted work, she, visibly exhausted, gave a small smile to the first-years that were so dedicated to their friend and retired to her chambers for a spot of pepper-up chased by as much firewhiskey as decorum allowed for.

As Madam Pomfrey made her escape, Neville and Susan, who were as yet not privy to the situation, pelted Dudley with questions. Fortunately for him, the wily master of the infirmary had foreseen his friends' inquisitiveness and had administered a quite unnecessary sleepless sleep potion to allow him a reprieve. She also made sure that the dose was potent enough that the rest of the school, Mootmates included, would be at the mandatory chapel service when he woke up.

When he did wake up, he found himself alone, for which he was thankful. It gave him time to think through the course of events that lead him to a hospital bed on the 1st floor, which is exactly what Madam Pomfrey had intended. He sorted through his recollections of what Melissa had said and thought back to the etiquette dinner of the night preceding his beating. After he had dredged up all he could remember of the final sequences of the night, he drew the correct conclusion that Millicent must have heard what he said to Draco.

This realization would later prove a pivotal point in his life, for it was then that he adopted the mantra strategy for living well. The inaugural maxim went something like this: Girls (later translated as: women) are always pretty (later translated as: beautiful).

He had just reached this conclusion when the hospital wing doors burst open to reveal his trio of friends dragging along a very harried-looking Madam Pomfrey. They, seeing that he was awake, redoubled their efforts to reach him in as little time as humanly possible (to great success, I might add).

Upon reaching him, the pair outside the know began to hail him with all manner of inquiry, which was hastily put paid not, as would have been expected, by the matron, but by Draco, who, with a subtle glance at Madam Pomfrey, secured their privacy. That accomplished, he turned to his fellows and addressed Dudley. "We'd all like to know what happened," he said with the faint air of superiority of those privy to a secret "why don't you tell us what happened, who did it, and, if you know, why they did it?"

Dudley took a moment to organize his thoughts and replied "I… it's… it's really embarrassing." He paused, regaining his composure and decided to just out with it. "It happened after Melissa asked to have a word with me. She took me through the castle to a place I've never been, an abandoned classroom." At this, his hands inexplicably raised themselves off of his sheets, as if warding off a spectral blow. "There were these… gloves… on a table. She made me put on a pair. We fought, and well, I guess you know how that turned out." He gave a wan smile, more of a grimace as he ended his tale.

Susan, who knew the Bulstrodes relatively well, was understandably confused - both Millicent and Melissa were on the quiet side. "But… why? Why would she lure you into an abandoned classroom to beat you up?"

At this, Draco stared pointedly at Dudley, surmising that the Ravenclaw would surely have discovered the sin for which Melissa's vengeance had been meted out. He made a show of clearing his throat to prod his fellow Mootmate along, while Dudley looked at his lap, a blush rising in his cheeks. "I… well, I insulted Millicent." Draco coughed more loudly "I… said she wasn't pretty at the dinner Friday and I guess she heard me…" He muttered finally.

At this revelation, Neville let out a low whistle and informed Dudley how lucky he'd been "You know, you should thank Melissa-"

"Thank her?! Why-" Dudley interjected, only to have Draco hold up a placating hand.

"He's right, you know." He said, seriously. Then, turning to Neville, he said "Go on."

"Well, she, by challenging you to an acceptable form of combat, made good the honor debt you owed their family. If she hadn't done that before Lord Bulstrode had heard and issued his challenge, you would have had to accept it and he would have been perfectly within his rights to kill you."

"And the Moot would have been _very_ put out." Draco appended.

Susan broke in after Draco hammered home his point "Now, we need to work on damage control."

As Susan's very appropriate sentiment was made known, the doors to the infirmary slammed open, revealing a visibly irate Melissa and a inconsolate Millicent. The former was thundering their way, with her hand to her sister's arm, practically dragging her along. Seeing Millicent's distress did what no beating or exhortation by his friends could do - it broke Dudley's innocent, boyish heart and made him actually regret what he said.

Melissa opened her mouth to give a verbal beating on par with the physical one she'd given the day before, but Dudley, for once, beat her to the punch "Millicent, I am so _so_ sorry," he said with easily recognizable sincerity, which put Melissa off her killing mood, fortunately for all involved. He quickly continued his plea "Please, I'll do anything, just please forgive me." He delivered his last with shining eyes and his heart on his sleeve.

Millicent, with a brand of mischievousness only found in little girls, saw her opportunity and she wasn't about to let it pass her by. She grinned behind the fall of hair she had been using to guard her face and said "Well… there is _one_ thing." She raised her face and smiled more broadly "You could take me to the Halloween Ball."

Now, as I'm sure you understand, there is a marked difference between going to a dance and going with someone to a dance. Dudley was keenly aware of this distinction and was, understandably, mortified. But he _did_ say "anything," and what good was he if he wasn't true to his word? He, in a truly heroic effort of will, was able to squeak out an "Ok," much to the delight of a much happier and manifestly excited Millicent. She let out an involuntary squeal and hugged Dudley tightly, which, oddly, didn't hurt at all. _Thank God for modern healing._ He thought as the Bulstrode sisters departed.

"Well, now that that's done, would you care to get some work done?" Draco asked with a sly grin while he held up Dudley's messenger bag full of the week's unfinished work. Dudley's only response was to groan as he held out his hand to receive his doom.

The following week and a half progressed as usual, and Halloween was upon them. The night before, Draco had dragged Dudley down to the dungeons to show him where he would pick Millicent up for the Ball, explaining that the location of dormitories was more or less an open secret but that the Heads of House would escort a date to a specified meeting place in order to preserve what secrecy they could. Draco also instructed him to pick Millicent up half-an-hour before the Ball was to begin.

When he finally made it to his dorm room, he noticed a moderately sized package was waiting for him on his bed. " _This came for you, master."_

" _Thank you, Alfred."_ Dudley replied, picking up the parcel and opening it clumsily, for it was well secured with a gratuitous quantity of twine. Finally, after much twine-wrangling and amusement from his snake, Dudley managed to reveal the contents, a dress robe of deep, royal blue, edged with silver as opposed to the more stereotypical bronze. Also within was a brief missive:

 _Dear Dudley, the First Dursley;_

 _Allow me to introduce myself: I am Lord Angold, the 37th Bulstrode. I understand that my daughters have made quite an impression on you. I do, however, hope this missive finds you wholly recovered and in a position to keep your promise to Millicent. I don't know how this family would handle another misstep in that regard. In any event, I pray that your studies go well - it may seem distant, but securing a career as a Muggleborn is disproportionately difficult and the expectations of excellence are already upon you. If ever you are in need of assistance, consider this a formal extension of whatever services are within my purview to render._

 _Faithfully Yours,_

 _Angold Bulstrode_

 _PS: Accompanying this letter is a set of formal robes, of the finest make and suitable for any occasion._

 _Odd._ He pushed aside thoughts of the letter, its strange contents, and stranger timing and prepared for bed. He had a big day ahead of him and it wouldn't do to be sleep deprived. Fortunately, Alfred had a good deal of control over his sleep cycle and he was off to never never land almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

The day of the Ball proceeded normally, but the nervous energy surrounding the students of every year made it so that instruction was more or less a hopeless endeavor. The professors, used to the cycle of hormones precipitated by events like this, had prepared accordingly and used the time to answer individual questions over the first cycle of mid-term examinations.

At long last, the end of the day's courses arrived and Dudley joined his peers in their slightly mad dash to the dormitories. As soon as he made the common room, he made for the bookcase and the 1st year trigger, only to be abducted by several girls a few years above him who had somehow caught wind of his impending "date." He was only able to escape the clutches of this coven of bookish witches when his highly evident and increasing panic at the prospect of being late made it past their mental "cuteness" shields.

His fears were well-founded as he arrived at the meeting place at 18:29, exactly 31 minutes before the Ball was to begin. Professor Snape was there waiting for newcomers. Dudley's timing, it seemed, was impeccable, as he saw what he assumed was the trailing edge of quite a substantial number of people heading toward the Great Hall and, from the other direction, a smattering of upper-year boys coming to fetch their dates on his heels. "Ah, if it isn't my favorite Ravenclaw." exaggerated the Potions master affably, a welcoming smile on his hook-nosed face.

"Good evening, professor!" Dudley responded with the false exuberance of the incredibly nervous. "I'm here for Ms. Bulstrode the younger."

"Indeed," Snape replied with an accommodating smile, "I shall conduct her to you shortly." With that, he swept off in an imposing billow of his overlarge cloak.

He returned with a much done-up Millicent on his arm, who seamlessly transferred her grip from the professor to Dudley. Dudley didn't need some axiomatic compulsion to convince him of the attractiveness of the girl on his arm, he could clearly see the same lines that her sister possessed that he had found so alluring before she proceeded to wail on him. Perhaps the junior Bulstrode would even exceed her sister's beauty. She wore a robe of silver filigree so ethereal as to give the tall, strong-lined girl the appearance of an adolescent angel of vengeance.

The pair made their way to the Great Hall, making smalltalk as they went. On the way, they passed the Astronomy professor, Aurora Snape nee Sinistra, who was clad in a robe of iridescent poison green so dark it was nearly black. They exchanged pleasantries briefly and continued on their way. The "couple" arrived at the Great Hall with much time to spare and made good use of it interacting with their peers. Fortunately, that interaction was much less awkward than Dudley had feared it might be, owing to the fact that Melissa had, unbeknownst to him, made very explicit threats to anyone who she perceived damaged her sister's happiness at the Ball. This was a threat that none dared test, having heard of Dudley's condition following their confrontation (secrets were very quick to spread in boarding schools, Hogwarts in particular).

As the time came to begin the festivities, Dumbledore exited the Great Hall, surveyed his pupils with the benevolent grin of senility and proclaimed "Wop-bop-a-loo-mop a-lop-bom-bom!" and swept back into the Hall, leaving the doors, and more than a few mouths, wide open in his wake.

The upper years, being more used to Dumbledore's particular brand of insanity, simply followed the old man into the Great Hall and disbursed to the various circular tables dotting the Hall. The tables were the same used in the normal course of events, but decorated for Halloween - black tablecloths with burnished bronze plates, goblets, and tablewear (magically sealed, of course). Other decorations were few in number but grand in scale: 12 huge tallow golems with Jack-o-Lantern heads danced around the perimeter of the Great Hall to music1 only they could hear. Quite badly, I might add. They were also horribly out of sync.

The Moot and their compatriots had joined up in the final minutes leading up to the opening of the Hall and moved together to find an open table near the dais where the teachers were seated. They were joined shortly by the Patil twins - Padma and Parvati, of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, respectively. Once all were seated, menus appeared on the plates and Deputy Headmistress McGonagall instructed the first years in their use - simply speak which option for each of the 3 courses you wished and your choices would be made available to you in due course. The Moot's table made their assessments quickly, being populated entirely by assertive youngsters, and the soup was transported to each of their places accordingly.

The table setting would have been daunting had it not been for the etiquette dinner on the 19th, as it was, it was a fairly conservative spread for a formal event. The Patils, new as the family was in Britain, were well educated in the area of formal conduct, so no unfortunate mishaps took place at their table. Many of the other tables containing first years, or recalcitrant upper years who refused to learn proper manners, had all manner of embarrassing and memorable accidents. Ronald Weasley, for example, put the obscenely lacey arm of his robe right into Harry's soup and dribbled it over Harry, himself, and an innocent bystander.

Dinner elsewhere progressed merrily, with good cheer and conversation. At the table with the Moot, the majority of that conversation centered around giving Dudley a hard time for his coercive date. _Jokes on you,_ he thought as he smiled and shook his head as another gibe on that topic _I'm having a great time._ Finally the meal came to a close, much to the chagrin of certain corpulent members of the student body. As the food disappeared, all of the upper years decamped their seats, and the first timers followed suit. Once the chairs were all vacated, Dumbledore rose and waved his wand, banishing the tables and chairs to the sides of the Hall in neatly stacked piles between the dancing golems, who had taken to passing their heads amongst themselves periodically.

This accomplished, Dumbledore strode into the middle of the newly minted dance floor and called over his shoulder to Professor Flitwick, the Ball's DJ "Yo, drop me a fat beat!" The charms professor, being used to the Headmaster's eccentricities, was prepared and queued up the a mix of tracks2 he made for this type of requests.

As soon as the music started, Dumbledore, his mere presence clearing the floor, removed his wand from where he had it holstered on his right forearm. He started bobbing his head, getting in the groove of the song, sending ripples down his long hair and longer beard. He shook out his arms, shifting his weight from one foot to another. After several seconds of this, he seemed satisfied with his state of oneness with the music and began to dance with intricate footwork. he occasionally did tricks, somersaults, front-or-backflips, and the like. Seemingly dissatisfied with the degree of difficulty, he began to conjure ephemeral dancing partners that spun and flipped in concert with him, even going into a sort of orchestrated, rhythmic magical battle at some points. his performance reached a fever pitch as he did a series of maneuvers that culminated in him spinning his body above the ground using only his hands.

At the end of this final trick, he sprang up, his wand out, and blasted a nearby student with an overpowered, silent " _Confrigo!"_ that sent the poor ginger first year boy crashing into a golem, sinking partway into the magically animated flesh. As he flew, Dumbledore shouted madly "Get thee to a nunnery, it's the only way you'll ever get laid!" into the silence produced by the end of the song list he had been dancing to.

Turning his attention to the justifiably terrified students nearest him, Dumbledore opened his arms wide, obstinately yelling "What?" at them. Then he made a mic drop motion with his wand, which, before it hit the floor, appeared in his hand again with no apparent effort on his part as he was lead away by a frazzled Deputy Headmistress.

A brief moment of shock as even the 7th years who thought they had already seen the zaniest thing Dumbledore would do processed what just happened. Fortunately, before speculation could run rampant, the sharp-witted Flitwick started playing some of the more pedestrian dance tunes. The students seemed to get the hint and began the wild thrashing that passed for dancing among the younger generations.

This state of affairs held steady for several hours, until the staff felt they had suffered enough of the hip music consisting of the following masterpieces and many more: Party Rock Anthem, Moves Like Jagger, On the Floor, Black & Yellow, Dynamite, We Found Love, and Like a G6) and insisted upon classical pieces and real, ballroom dancing. This suited the students just fine as they had been expecting this move far earlier and had, for the most part, been raised to appreciate the more formal styles of dancing. This shift had the unfortunate side effect of creating space between the dancers for Harry to exact vengeance for the perceived wrong the student body had done for laughing at his friend when he was thrown across the room by Dumbledore.

Harry was singularly gifted for the havoc he wished to wreak. His oath allowed him to influence the girls around him without touching them. Normally, this wasn't particularly helpful, however, when spacing was as important as it was on a dance floor, he could sow chaos with great effect. His "gift" had a certain range of efficacy, the magic created an impenetrable barrier roughly 4 inches from his body. He used this force field to trip, bump, and generally disturb all of the couples he could get in range of. After several operations, he had refined this practice to an art. He caused feet to tangle, toppling at least the immediately affected couple, sometimes more. He made feet trod on foot, which, if the lady were wearing heels, was quite painful for the partner. He was even able to force heads and pelvises together, making for significant awkwardness.

None could pin it on him because he never actually touched them. However, someone in the crowd had marked him - Dudley. He had traced the wake of his cousin's indiscretion through the crowd, wondering who could be causing such a disturbance, until, by chance, he saw Harry's face after a quite accidental kiss between an upper year Ravenclaw of East-Asian descent and a… sparkly Hufflepuff boy a few years her senior. He continued to keep an eye on the progress of his cousin as he and Millicent danced together.

Harry noticed Dudley with a Slytherin girl he couldn't identify and knew that he simply had to get to them. He abandoned his current shenanigans in favor of making a beeline for his cousin. He, not knowing Dudley was on to him, made to trip the happy couple. However, before he could make "contact," Millicent was twirled away. Dudley nonverbally made it known to Millicent that she ought to go sit with the rest of the Moot's party, which had given up dancing several songs before.

As Millicent made her way to the safety of the table, Dudley turned to his cousin and said "You leave her alone," with heat.

"What're you gonna do about it?" Harry taunted.

"This." He replied simply, pulling out his TAM Prototype guitar.

Harry responded in kind, despite not having mastered a single offensive or defensive spell, not that Quirrell taught any.

Harry didn't know that Dudley also knew no combat magic. Dudley did, however, have a distinct advantage over his cousin - he was an audiomage. He opted for a different song than he played in the woods since he didn't particularly care to risk turning bystanders technicolor, or murder his cousin, despite how much he detested Harry. Instead, he opted for a classic guitar piece3 that he had loved ever since picking up the instrument.

When the last scream of the 8-stringed instrument died, the Golems, whose "flesh" was alight, were using Harry's limbs as faux maracas and his torso was plastered to the ceiling (all his wounds had been immediately cauterized by some spell Dudley was weaving). Everyone else in the room was bald, dripping ectoplasm, and dancing an Irish river dance, which Seamus was enjoying immensely. The room was also dead silent, even the music had stopped in the middle of his performance.

Just as people began to regain their senses Quirrell, who had been conspicuously absent for the celebration, sprinted through the open doors of the Hall. "Troll," he screamed "Troll in the dungeon!" he staggered about, lamely looking around for a beat then said "Thought you ought to know." before dropping in a dead faint.

Under normal circumstances, this revelation would have engendered great an immediate panic. These were not normal circumstances. The entire school had just witnessed an 11-year-old dismember another student, who, thankfully was still living as evidenced by the screams of his post-shock agony. This macabre incident had produced a shock-induced clarity in the staff and student body.

McGonagall took charge forcefully, instructing all those not participating in NEWT-level Defense to congregate on the staff dais. Meanwhile, the staff and those 6th and 7th years taking defense would barricade the doors to the Hall and prepare a battle plan, including a way to lure the beast to their position.

Those near the entrance to the Hall held a brief meeting in hushed toned. At the end of the discussion, Snape spoke an incantation which was followed by a flash of silvery-white light. The others were busy conjuring great iron bars across the doors in addition to the one that had already appeared, seemingly out of thin air.

Some indeterminate time later, those at the doorway to the Hall began to feel increasingly pronounced tremors in the floor. They turned to one another, each trying to mask the fear they felt about their impending battle with what could only be an uncommonly large mountain troll.

Soon the resident of the entire Hall could feel the pounding of the colossal feet. And they trembled with fear.

Shortly thereafter, the pounding stopped - the troll had arrived, or so it seemed. Loud, frantic whispers began to proliferate throughout the student body, but, before they could really pick up steam, a great crash echoed from the doors to the Great Hall. The beast was come.

The troll slammed his hammer into the reinforced door repeatedly, but it held all the while. After several minutes of this barrage, a particularly potent blow sent a single splinter of the door caterwauling through the air to land halfway down the Hall, sliding to a stop as the next strike landed. Meanwhile, the golems sprung into action, gathering in the center of the Hall for a quick ro sham bo tournament, the purpose of which was made apparent only after its completion. The champion of the contest strode with mighty steps to interpose itself between the staff and the increasingly battered door. The loser (there was a losers bracket, in which a golem would only advance if it continued to lose) had his jack-o-Lantern head ripped from its tallow body and passed to the champion to use as ammunition in its duel with the troll. The 20-foot-tall construct stood as the troll continued to rail against the obstacle keeping him from wreaking wanton destruction, a smile adorning his pumpkin-flesh features not unlike a Manchester boy would have at his first derby, tossing its comrades head into the air with casual anticipation.

At long last, the left-hand door gave, shattering spectacularly. The troll stood, barring the path to freedom, raising its hammer, whose weight rivalled that of a small car. Before it could rain destruction down on the inhabitants of the Hall, the golem struck, throwing the head of its companion in the face of the intruder. The blow itself staggered the troll back one of its massive paces, however, the greatest damage was done when the large candle splattered its wax over the face of the troll and was ignited. Trolls, you see, are weak to fire - it and acid are the only things capable of rendering the troll's regenerative properties null and void.

Thus blinded and burning, the troll lashed out with a lateral, slashing blow, which the golem easily avoided. The swing had overbalanced the troll, leaving it weak to counterattack. The golem, aware of its advantage, made great use of it. It swung a mighty left-handed haymaker into the jaw of the troll, smearing its own tallow flesh on the beast in the process, which, too alighted, increasing the potency of the flames.

Enraged, the troll used the momentum of the blow to spin around and level a mighty swing at the head of the golem. This strike connecte, clobbering the Jack-o-Lantern head, smashing it to pieces. The detritus of the former decorative head sailed through the air, transcribing a parabola as the chunks were scattered throughout the Entry Hall.

The troll was not yet finished with the unfortunate golem. It used the momentum of the swing to ready another strike, this time swinging its hammer upward, whence it caught the golem under the right arm, shearing it off cleanly.

Thinking its opponent incapacitated, the troll turned to face its next combatant. However, the golem, bereft of its head and arm, made a mad dash at the troll, tackling it from behind in a 3-limbed grapple. The other golems, seeing the troll downed, rushed in to seal its fate. The nearest removed its head and hurled it, streaming fire, at its grappling comrade, lighting the tallow flesh fully and engulfing the troll in furious flames.

The troll loosed a Wilhelm scream as its body was immolated. The remaining golems, seeking to turn up the heat on their enemy, one by one, leaped, somersaulted, and flipped their way over the line of staff and NEWT students to fling their bodies on their conflagratory companion. The last to join their mates on the pile were the headless ones, who flopped onto the heap gracelessly.

Unfortunately, magically animated golems are short on reasoning skills. They had not anticipated that their bodies would muffle the flames, which, if put out entirely, would allow the troll to begin healing itself. The staff were more wily. As soon as the last golems had cleared the line, the Snapes lead the charge to ensure the continued burning of the tallow-fleshed golem pile. As they approached, they called out in unison " _Flagrante!"_ which was followed by a ragged chorus of the same as a barrage of streams of fire erupted from the wands of all present. The flames ranged from cool red from the more junior, magically weaker NEWT defense students to the likes of Severus and Filius, whose flames were blue-and-white-tinged ripples. Between them, they circled 'round the mound of fat and wax, making certain that it would burn until all the tallow, and the troll beneath it, was gone. Once they had accomplished this, they began retreating as the flame's heat became unbearable.

The staff and students finally retreated fully into the Great Hall when the pillar of flame began to lick the ceiling of the Entrance Hall. Satisfied that the troll would surely perish, they sealed the doorway as best they could and McGonagall lead a team of staff and students conjuring triple-decker bunk-beds for the students. As she did so, she informed the student body as a whole that, for the night, they would be confined in the Great Hall so that they would be safe while the staff rooted out the source of the intrusion and if there were any remaining threats.

Dudley and the Moot selected a set of bunks in the far corner of the Hall, away from the doors, where they could, if need be, see the entire space, and react to unforeseen circumstances. The students had just settled down and Dudley was drifting off to sleep - a strange sensation after being put under, unknowingly, by Alfred for the past several months. However, he was disturbed by a gentle shake of his shoulder. He turned to face the disruptor of his sleep to see Millicent looking sheepish.

Despite her finery, she looked very much like the 11-year-old girl that she was in that moment. "I.. I'm scared, and… well, when I was scared at home, I'd…" she faltered, embarrassed, and began to turn away.

"No, it's fine. Here." Dudley supplied, moving his covers so that he occupied only half of the space and that Millicent would be on top of them. She smiled bashfully in response, crawling into the bed and positioning herself so that they were back-to-back, as scared children are wont to do. The pair fell asleep thus arrayed and were found so that morning by the staff as they made their rounds, doing an exhaustive headcount.

The roll came up 2 short.

It was repeated and came up 2 short again.

When the heads of house convened to determine who was missing, it came to light that the truant pair were first years. One a Gryffindor, the other a Slytherin - Hermione Granger and Daphne Greengrass. They were found outside the nearest girls' lavatory - a bloody stain on the marble flooring around 2 black robes.

Meanwhile, Harry was being stitched together by a very put out Madam Pomfrey, who took an extra portion of Ogden's Finest as recompense for the troubles of the day.

\ |/|

/ /| |

\/ | |

In the dead of night, in a single-roomed hut on the boundary between the Hogwarts grounds and the Forbidden Forest, a clandestine meeting was taking place.

"What?" roared the half-giant.

"T-t-they managed t-to s-subdue the c-c-creature b-before I c-c-could m-make m-my es-scape, m-milord." The stuttering servant trailed off, the taste of the last word bitter in his mouth. Lord Voldemort served no man, especially not some filthy half-breed!

"Creature! Creature?" the bearded man yelled, then whispered dangerously. "Buttercup weren't jus' a 'creature,' she wa' a princess among tha trolls. Mos' resistant, tough, strong o' her kind." He said, misty-eyed. "How'd they do it, eh?" he challenged.

"T-they didn't u-use m-m-magic, milord." He hesitated, knowing the wrath of his master was nigh upon him. "T-there w-were g-g-golems, made of t-tallow - d-decorations, you s-s-see. They e-engaged the t-t-troll and s-sacrif-ficed t-themselves t-t-to immolate it, s-s-sire."

The behemoth man went wide-eyed at his servant's incompetence, backhanding him so mightily that the indentation was visible on the exterior of the structure. "Out." he commanded, and, despite the brokenness of his body, the half-giant's acolyte managed to do as instructed.

The now solitary occupant of the hut wept silently for the loss of the pinnacle of his decades-long troll breeding program. There would never be another the equal of his Buttercup.


	8. Chapter 8

Dudley was standing next to an irate professor Flitwick, whose diminutive size amplified the effect of his enraged state, rather than nullify it. They were in a rarely trod area of the castle, which was much adorned with gargoyles of all description. The one immediately before them bore the image of a ram, but it had 7 horns and 7 eyes, which followed the viewer beneficently. Flitwick's ire had been terrifying to behold when he had fetched Dudley from the bunk he had slept in following the troll incident. His anger had only increased by his defeat at the hands of Dumbledore's password guardian, he was now uttering a stream of profanity so base it would have colored a sailor's cheeks.

Fortunately for Dudley, who was rapidly beginning to suspect that, lacking another target, he would become the sole recipient of a former champion duellist's wrath, McGonagall happened by. He, understandably, wanted very much to avoid that fate. Knowingly, the Deputy Headmistress, who was made aware of any password changes to the Headmaster's office, rendered the password to the gargoyle "Ekke Ekke Ekke Ekke Ptang Zoo Boing!" and sauntered off.

The gargoyle stepped lightly off to one side, never removing its gaze from the entrant pair. Where the ram had stood, the wall parted to reveal a corkscrew, moving staircase, an odd groove adorned the wall, ostensibly to provide a track for the stairs to ascend. Flitwick took a moment to gather himself, breathing deeply and rhythmically for several beats. Once he was satisfied with his mental state, he shot Dudley one last dour look before mounting the stairs, which began moving once he stepped onto them. Dudley hastily followed suit.

The stairs ceased their revolution once the top step made contact with the landing leading to Dumbledore's office. The door across the landing was a monolithic thing, carved out of hardwood with much sculpting and runic carving. The pair, professor and pupil, strode quickly to the office, the door to which swung open of its own accord as the office's resident called out "Solicitous salutations!" To which Flitwick merely rolled his eyes.

The office was littered with tables and workbenches, upon which stood the trappings of genius - devices of arcan provenance that would likely never again be understood, instruments so subtle that their gauges, when identifiable, had several lenses to aid in their discernment, even mechanical-magical equipment that would make any muggle engineer drool, regardless of their discipline. Beyond all of it sat the creator of nearly everything wonderful and arcane in sight - Albus Dumbledore, who was looking quite mad, eyes and hair wild, clothing askew, hanging upside down from the ceiling, his desk and chair affixed there by some unknown means, to say nothing of his posterior.

Seeing them, the Headmaster greeted the two "Happy Winter Solstice 50-times Eve." smiling merrily.

"Ah… you, too, Albus." Flitwick stammered uncertainly. "I'll leave Mr. Dursley to you, as I find myself… compromised by the situation. Good day." With that, he about faced and stiffly marched out the door, turning back briefly, wondering if leaving the boys punishment to a madman would be any better than him sentencing the boy himself. His uncertainty went unresolved as he completed the journey to the hallway below.

"Sit." Dumbledore instructed, indicating the chair before him on the ceiling.

"Er…" was Dudley's eloquent reply.

"Just sit, right where you are."

"Er, ok…?" He said, making a sitting motion, which had the unsettling effect of transporting him into the chair Dumbledore had originally indicated. "Woah…" he whispered, awed.

Dumbledore waited for his charge to regain his composure, steepling his fingers as he did so. Dudley recovered and looked at the Headmaster, who was staring at him disconcertingly through spectacles he just noticed were rapidly changing shape. "So…" Dudley trailed off uncertainly.

Instead of responding to Dudley's prompting, Dumbledore removed his wand from his voluminous sleeves. He briefly contemplated the length of wood before casually turning it on Dudley and calmly incanting " _Calvario."_ At which Dudley's hair fell out. Before it could land, Dumbledore waved his wand about in a convoluted pattern and the hair seemed to animate itself and begin assaulting Dudley. During this, he cast a silent sticking charm on Dudley to keep him in his seat.

With that, he stood and, as he did so, was transported to the floor where he began to sing the most tuneless, awful dirge he could summon. Shortly after the singing began, a troupe of scantily clad female house-elves appeared and began dancing inappropriately. Dudley, meanwhile, was being forced to watch by virtue of the animated hair staying out of his line of sight and a mild magnetism charm Dumbledore had placed on the elves as they arrived.

After nearly three hours of this, Dumbledore ceased his caterwauling and dismissed the elves to their normal duties. He also dispelled the animation charm on Dudley's hair before regrowing it like it was never gone. He cancelled the sticking charm and bade the boy to stand.

Dudley stood shakily, certain the events of the past several hours would be with him throughout his life. He was momentarily disoriented by the sudden change in perspective, but soon recovered. _Surely that's the punishment._ He hoped to himself half-heartedly.

"Now, for your punishment. Take this," Dumbledore said, proffering a tub of Nancy's Never-ending Nail Polish (For Stainless Steel Only!) and a scrap of sandpaper "and polish the left foot of every suit of armor in the castle."

 _Of_ course _not._ Dudley thought petulantly, turning to leave and perform his allotted task.

"Ah, before you go, you'll need these." Dumbledore said, holding aloft what looked suspiciously like a musketeer's costume. Dudley turned in time to catch the outfit which had been thrown at him rather unceremoniously. He made for the door quickly, hoping to avoid any more stipulations to further the humiliation he was sure to receive in the course of fulfilling his assigned punishment. He was in the hallway before he allowed himself to breath a sigh of relief.

His consolation was short lived.

He found a washroom nearby which suited his purposes quite nicely. He changed into the outlandish garb as quickly as he could, which was not very - there were a seemingly endless array of loops and buckles that he had to contend with. He managed it in the end and made his escape from the bathroom.

As soon as he did, he spotted Dumbledore, who, without a word, threw him a brass ring and twirled about to return to his office.

Dudley caught it and, wonderingly, put the ring on. As soon as he did so, he felt a… pull, down the hall. Not knowing what else to do and having no real idea how to locate the suits of armor, as they were notoriously mobile, he followed the ring's compulsion.

It was fortunate that he did so, for the ring's influence lead him straight to a passage where stood a solitary suit of battered armor. The gear had obviously seen actual battle, for it bore the evidence of not-quite-entirely-removed bloodstains.

As soon as he came into the hallway proper, however, the suit did something rather unexpected. It moved.

The armor moving wasn't unusual, the armor moved all the time. It was the _way_ the armor moved that caught Dudley's attention - it was strikingly similar to the way Melissa had moved before she beat him to a pulp. Martial, was the way he'd describe it.

The suit prowled forward until it was 10 or so paces away and then began hurling abuse at Dudley, mostly about his parentage and apparent French-ness. Typical fare for an aggressive Brit meeting what seemed like a French militant.

Before Dudley could correct the errant suit, it spoke the first sentence that wasn't laced with profanity - a challenge to a duel. "Steall eac ágiefest, cnap Francus!" It called, unsheathing its broadsword, which, unlike the rest of it, was in gleaming good condition.

Dudley was suddenly thankful for the slender blade that had accompanied his outfit, which he withdrew immediately, despite not having the faintest clue how to use it.

The suit charged, sword raised, thundering and clanging as he came. The broadsword whistled as it swung forward at eye level with Dudley, who barely had time to raise his own weapon before his head was rent in twain.

The parry was sufficient to save his head, but only because the sword seemed to have some forcefield around it that prevented it from making contact with anything. As it was, Dudley was badly concussed and missing a swath of hair again. The sword that had until recently been in his hand was lying on the opposite side of the hallway and the suit's sword was resting point-first on his clavicle. He slowly raised his hands in surrender to which the suit responded by bursting out in laughter and boisterously insulting his family and French people in general.

After a minute or so of such abuse, the suit proffered its left boot. Thankfully, Dudley got out his mismatched kit and began to polish the steel pseudo-appendage. It took some time, but once he was finished, the suit offered one last parting shot and resumed its post.

Thereafter Dudley simply surrendered to the animated armor, counting the cost in abuse as well worth the retention of his bodily viability. It took him the rest of the day, after which, he returned his supplies to a madly grinning Dumbledore and slunk off to bed. Alfred didn't need to assist in his instantaneous sleep, as worn as he was.

The following day Dudley learned just how insidious his punishment truly was. On his way to class, whenever he encountered a suit of armor, it dressed him down. Only coming short of challenging him again because he obviously carried no weapon. This, however, only fueled their insults, which were increasingly vulgar and graphic.

The remainder of the day was fairly normal, with the exception of numerous students whispering about his display at the Ball as he passed them by. By day's end, Dudley was well and truly tired of the spotlight. He sank into his bed, visibly depressed.

Normally, Alfred would offer whatever comfort he thought his master was in need of in these circumstances. However, Alfred thought a good dose of negative reinforcement was in order for his master's recent foolishness, both his the Millicent and his cousin at the Ball.

" _Master!"_ The snake hissed, with noticeable venom, which is remarkable since Alfred is, after all, a venomous snake.

Nervously, as he had never heard this tone from his familiar, Dudley responded " _Alfred?"_

" _Don't 'Alfred' me, young man!"_ The snake demonished snidely " _You know perfectly well what this is about."_

" _Uhh… I really don't."_ He responded dumbly.

Alfred was, for a moment, struck dumb. He, however, recovered his wits quickly. " _That makes it doubly as bad!"_

" _What did I do?"_ He asked desperately.

" _The_ girl _."_ The snake replied, speaking as if he were addressing a particularly dim child, which, at the moment, he was.

" _Millicent? Haven't I been punished enough by her sister?"_ Dudley countered. " _Besides, I took her to the ball Wednesday and, apart from the troll and Harry, we had a great time."_

" _Her sister?"_

" _Melissa, yeah."_

" _I know who she is. What did she do to 'punish' you?"_

Dudley made a bitter, amused noise in the back of his throat " _You mean other than beat the crap out of me?"_ He asked sardonically.

" _Ah… I see. I take it this is the reason for your absence Saturday night?"_

" _Yeah."_ Dudley said as he shifted his eyes away from his serpentine companion, suddenly embarrassed to have been beaten so soundly by a girl, no matter the age and maturity gap.

" _Well, it seems you have learned_ that _lesson. However, there_ are… _protocols that must be observed in these instances."_

" _Such as?"_

Alfred took a moment to order his thoughts and launched into a convoluted and confusing explanation of the forms of address and redress when formally recognized parties had exchanged insults publicly. At the end of this lesson, Dudley was sweating profusely. As Alfred trailed off his last statement, he rushed to the dresser on top of which lay the letter from Lord Bulstrode.

He read the contents aloud for the benefit of Alfred, who, for all his talents, was unable to read. At the end if Dudley's recitation, he pondered the avenues which could be pursued and realized that he was quite out of his depth. " _You'll need a tutor in the ways of the nobility. Let us contact the chaperons of your lovely, if ill-fated, etiquette dinner. If they are unable to help you directly, they will certainly know someone who can."_ He thought for another moment before adding " _You should consult young master Malfoy on the form of address for such a request, he should be sufficiently well-versed to get you by for such an innocuous inquiry."_

" _Okay, I'll do that in the morning after-"_

" _Before!"_

" _Before we do our work. Can I go to bed?"_ Dudley asked, pitifully enough that Alfred's resolve wavered, but only for a moment.

" _Not quite, I'm not finished with you."_ Dudley groaned in response. " _You must contain yourself. The incident during the ball was so severe that the castle herself manifested in this room to beg my intervention. She needn't have bothered, of course, the ghosts informed me as well and I simply cannot allow you to continue as you have."_

" _But-"_

" _No! Excuses are for failures. You were out of control and you must never allow that to happen again. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"_

" _Crystal."_ Dudley replied, rolling his eyes at his companion's fervor.

" _Don't roll your eyes at me, this is serious. Now to bed, before you further test my patience."_

Dudley complied, changing into his pajamas, leaving his robes and underthings on the floor, crawling into bed with the creaking sloth of the physically exhausted.

As soon as his master had made his laborious way to his resting place, Alfred put him under, and the clothes scattered about the floor floated into their ordered place. His work accomplished, the snake slithered into his own sleeping spot and winked asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

The days following Dudley's boot-polishing punishment made readily apparent the Headmaster's penchant for instilling lasting order among miscreants. Suits of armor, whenever he saw them, would make their way to him to heap abuse on him, both verbal, and to his and madam Pomfrey's increasing chagrin, physical. After the first several run-ins, however, Dudley became adept at avoiding the animated armor and was able to escape their not-so-tender ministrations for the most part thereafter.

The Friday of the first full week of November saw Dudley and his yearmates in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff in Snape's dungeon, preparing a common, household herbicide specific to non-magical plants. The practical itself was uneventful, the "rivalry" between the 'claws and 'puffs being much less pronounced than that between the House of Lions and the House of Snakes. The students, as per usual, were well prepared and passably competent. Very rarely did a potions practical with these houses present result in exploding or melting cauldrons.

At the terminus of the extended practical period, the students collected their attempts in the appropriate vials and turned them in. A cursory glance from the potions master indicated that the results were varying degrees of "satisfactory," with several of exceptional quality intermingled. One such example was handed to him by Dudley, who he held up, saying "Mr. Dursley, I must speak with you a moment after class."

Surprised, the boy nonetheless managed a polite "Yes, sir," before returning to his station to collect his things and clean up.

As Dudley did so, Snape called out to Susan, who had already packed and was on her way to the corridor to wait on her friend, "you might as well stay, too. This pertains to you in equal measure, miss Bones."

The Mootmates stood close to one another nervously while their classmates made good their escape to the relative freedom of their astronomy lecture. Once the dungeon was empty save the participants of the Moot-related conversation, Snape spoke. "Mr. Malfoy requested that I inform you that you two, Draco, and Neville Longbottom are to meet him and a colleague this evening following dinner. Enclosed are the details." He said, handing over a thin, unsealed envelope.

Dudley, quite forgetting his manners, immediately made to open it, however, he was saved from embarrassment by a gentle nudge from Susan and an equally gentle cough from the Potions master, who continued "If I'm not mistaken, you have quite a journey to your astronomy lecture, do you not?"

At this, the children's eyes bulged and they made all haste out of the classroom as they did, in fact, have to cross the entire breadth and height of the castle to make it to their next lesson.

Following their evening meal, the youngest generation of the Moot made their way to the 7th floor and the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, who made a gruesomely short-lived attempt at teaching mountain trolls ballet. Upon their arrival, they saw a pair of adults, one of whom they immediately recognized. "Dad?" Draco inquired once they had come within earshot.

The blonde wizard, who was sporting a guitar case instead of his usual snake-head cane, turned from his conversation partner to smile at his son. "Surprise!" he said, the panache with which he always carried himself evident, despite the laughter in his voice. "Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Bellatrix Lestrange, she, as you know, will be instructing you in the time-honored art of dueling, I trust you will regard her with all of the respect that would imply." He said, looking at his charges with mock severity, confidently assured that they would do exactly as he expected. "Bellatrix, these are Susan Bones, Dudley Dursley, and Neville Longbottom. You, of course, remember Draco."

The black-haired witch smiled broadly at them and, winking replied "Charmed." To which Lucius merely rolled his eyes. Bellatrix, in turn, pouted at him in an exaggerated manner. Having had her fun, the dueling instructor turned to her pupils. "Right, well, let's get right to it, shall we?" With that, she turned about and paced in front of the tapestry several times, after the third pass, an ornate stone door appeared in the wall opposite the depiction of Barnabas' ignominy (I mean really, who would put a yellow tutu on a troll with greenish-gray skin? Completely washed the poor girl out). She made for the portal immediately and opened the door, ushering in the Young Mootmates. The children filed in, but, just as Dudley was about to enter the mysterious room, Mr. Malfoy pulled him out of line, letting the others behind him past. Once Dudley's three compatriots were safely ensconced in the Room, being distracted by a Bellatrix perfectly suited to the task, Lucius bent down to the wayward-seeming 11-year-old.

"I would speak with you a moment."

"About what, sir?" Dudley asked, imbuing his inquest with as much grace as he could.

The Penultimate Malfoy raised his eyebrow slowly at this, and to the perfect degree to convey his condescension before replying. "Conduct unbecoming a member of the Moot."

Quickly catching on to the severity of the offense, Dudley's own eyebrows ascended, albeit much farther and more rapidly and with an accompanying widening of the eyes that was not present on the face of the older man. He began to stutter a response, doubtless to be laden with excuses. Lucius saved him the embarrassment by cutting him off. "I am aware that your… education on this subject has left something to be desired. However, ignorance of minutiae is no excuse for what appears to be an absence of common sense."

Chastened, Dudley lowered his head. "I'm sorry, sir." he muttered, inconsolate at disappointing his de facto mentor.

"Don't apologize to me. It wasn't me you nearly killed." Lucius replied, genuinely confused as to why this child had seen fit to make amends with someone whom he had done nothing to. "An idiomatic first lesson will have to suffice for now, as your time is neither yours nor mine at present." The Penultimate Malfoy paused for effect then uttered one of the more profoundly underwhelming statements Dudley had heard since his formal inauguration into wizarding society: "The first rule of magic is to assume that it will kill you, because, no matter how seemingly innocuous, it can."

Dudley blinked, expecting something less obvious then said, in a tone reserved for such self-explanatory statements "Of course, sir."

Lucius' eyebrow ascended even further. "Of course?" Dudley nodded. "Well, you'll forgive me for mistaking your mastery of this precept since you have clearly never done anything cavalier with magic which you knew nothing about to a wizard who knew even less about it and who was defenseless against it."

During this fleeting rant, Dudley steadily acquired a progressively deeper shade of red in the cheeks and neck. By the end, he was too embarrassed and angry with himself to do more than look pleadingly at Lucius in a bid for the relative freedom of the impending dueling lesson, which the elder Mootmate granted, seeing his purpose for the evening in this regard had been fulfilled. Upon receiving Mr. Malfoy's affirmative response, Dudley made all haste into the room which was many rooms.

Inside were the smoldering remains of many hundreds of wooden dummies, many blasted into small bits, riven in twain, or burnt so badly that a hole had been bored through them. The dummies were all identical, sporting what appeared to be mediocre wands instead of analogue hands. Dudley briefly wondered if an army had torn through the place, but immediately dismissed the notion as absurd. His friends, meanwhile, were gaping, arrayed around a decidedly untroubled Bellatrix, who reposed in an exceptionally comfortable looking leather recliner by a fire Dudley would have sworn wasn't part of the decor when he first looked into the room.

Draco was the first to break the reverie "Bollocks! There's no way one person can fire so many spells that quickly!"

"Tsk, tsk Draco, is that any way to address a lady of your own house?" Bellatrix sardonically chided before Lucius, who she could tell was in just the perfect mood for it and already warmed up, could have a proper go at his son.

Draco, who had also just noticed his father's ingress, adopted the appropriate level of contrition about his features and bearing before responding with a meek "No, ma'am."

Sending a look to her brother in law that he may as well pretend to have been mollified, because she would steamroll him if he tried to make a scene, Bellatrix greeted her final pupil with a smile and began her lesson. "Well, now that we're all here, let's get started, shall we?" She said brightly. "I believe, of course, that the best way to learn something is to try to do it and fail miserably a whole bunch of times, so, with that, draw wands!" This she did with a flourish, at which point she noticed that only one of her students had managed to copy her dubious accomplishment - Susan. The others were, by turns, occupied with straps of guitars or miniature drum kits.

It took Neville the longest to get setup, having to enlist Susan's aid in unshrink his kit, since he'd quite forgotten how to do so. This all took several minutes, a hellish duration for the excitable Lestrange, who took to banishing the remnants of her erstwhile targets to the far side of the room, which was quite distant.

"... Well, this is certainly going to be… interesting." Bellatrix said in response to Neville's mandatory fixation, and, to a lesser degree, Draco and Dudley's seriously limited mobility. The only person even technically capable of moving in the fashion necessary to be an effective duelist was Susan. I'm going to wipe the floor with these kids. She thought to herself, before qualifying Well, that was a given. I might be able to finish this lesson in 10 seconds without breaking a sweat.

"Well, uh, if you're ready, go ahead and let loose whenever." She told her eager disciples.

Somewhat confused, the foursome stood, looking at each other blankly for a second. Draco, being the most comfortable with his aunt, opened fire first. It was a simple spell, badly cast, and Bellatrix had seen it coming from the moment he had made his mind up to cast. Accordingly, she was well away from the bolt of magic by the time it occupied the space she had when Draco had made his attempt.

Emboldened by their comrade's apparent success (He had forced her to dodge, after all!) the remaining Mootiers opened up. Susan, with the same spell as Draco (one not thus far taught at Hogwarts) and Neville, with a truly impressive levitation-come-pseudo-banishment as a burst of instinctive magic. This evidenced a very fine control of magic that a wizard many years his senior would be properly jealous over, but by which Bellatrix was unfazed. Dudley, meanwhile, had resorted to his typical modus operandi of playing the first piece of music that came easily to mind. Lucius' response was to bury his face in his hands after erecting a hasty shield and hope that he didn't end up carrying the child of a peer to the Matron in pieces.

Fortunately, Lestrange perceived the danger to her new pupils, and deflected a Draco's second jelly-legs Dudley's direction. This turned out rather poorly, as the phrase of Purple Haze he was playing at the time happened to be the sequence for a low-powered, obscure blasting hex that hit the ground just below his head as he fell to the floor, giving him a mild concussion.

Neville was still struggling with his kit, as he was far from rhythmically inclined. His extensive practice throughout the first term had, however, borne some fruit - he was hasty and accurate with the basic four-count which formed the basis for most songs and, fortunately, spells. In a spurt of adventurousness, he tried a variation of the theme which resulted in a Flippendo. However, the cymbal was badly struck, and his aim suffered accordingly. The hot sparks brushed the trailing edges of Draco's rather gratuitously made-up hair, lighting the product-laden hair like an Incendio. This, understandably, rendered him shrieking and entirely unfit for combat.

Mortified, Neville hastily recalled the sequence for Auguamenti and proceeded to play the pattern. His inexperience told again in his haste, and he mis-struck several of the notes which resulted in a boil-jinx. This spell, while helpfully aimed at Bellatrix, struck Draco full in the face as he, in a panic, had dropped his guitar and run through the middle of the fight - directly between Neville and Bellatrix. Draco was, however, blissfully unaware of his new facial accoutrements, in such pain as he was with his flaming hairdo.

Susan was being rather more productive, not that that was saying much, and was regularly firing off Locomotor Wibbly's. This was her spell of choice for multiple reasons. The first was that it was a remarkable easy spell to perform, even for a first year not yet out of her first term. Second, and perhaps more importantly, her target, Bellatrix, was moving about the room at an astonishing speed, meaning a hit from a jelly-legs curse would result in a spectacular crash. However, the very speed with which Bellatrix was moving, combined with Susan's poor aim ensured that the Mootier's new mentor was perfectly safe.

Lucius uncovered his eyes just in time to see a madly pirouetting Bellatrix cast a modification of the banishing charm he had never seen before at his son's flaming head. Noticing the state of his son's hair, his eyes bulged nearly out of their sockets, however, when his cousin's spell hit Draco, the flames moved with the gel that he used to slick back his hair. 'Perhaps he'll learn to style himself more modestly… and prudently' he thought as Bellatrix formed the pyrotechnic gel into a dome completely isolating Neville and his kit.

This left Susan as the sole remaining combatant. This was not to last, however. Bellatrix had continued to careen about the room and, in the process, Susan, who was following her movement began to feel a bit woozy. Shortly thereafter she collapsed in a state of disorientation so complete that the room continued to spin until Bellatrix casually walked up to her and cast a lazy Stupefy, ending the fight.

She immediately Ennervated Susan and dissipated the flaming hemisphere containing Neville, releasing him. Draco she left to his father. She was, however, unable to revive Dudley from his stupor, having received a concussion which would have carried long-term consequences in the muggle world. Seeing the young wizard was in need of medical attention above and beyond that which she was capable of, she turned to she how her Nephew was doing.

Lucius was escorting his still pimple-laden son in her direction, with a very put-upon expression on his face. Apparently, the variant of the acne-jinx which Neville somehow produced was one which Lucius was unable to reverse. "Well," he said dryly, "it would appear that we have two new patients for the matron."

With that, he sent the unscathed children on to their dorms and escorted Draco and Bellatrix, who was levitating Dudley, to the infirmary amid many apparent jibes in an undecipherable variant of english from the numerous suits of armor lining the hallways of the castle.

They noticed that only one bed was currently occupied, which they passed on their way to inform Madam Pomfrey of their need. In it, they saw a small girl, undoubtedly a first year, with a badly disfigured face; melted, one would say if asked to describe it - lips vertical, ending below the chin, nose along the left jaw-line, eyes pushed up the forehead all asunder, skin mounded in wavy patterns. The only recognizable feature was her bushy, flyaway hair, which allowed Draco to identify her as Hermione Granger.

Lucius quickly summoned the Matron while Bellatrix directed Draco and the floating Dudley to a pair of adjacent beds. She arrived and quickly set to examining Dudley, as his was the more serious case. While she was busy with that, the adults held a whispered conversation about training possibilities and Draco, excluded from this talk, became rapidly bored. To stymie his boredom, he frequently stole glances at the only object of interest in the room - Hermione's mangled face. Noticing this as she completed her examination of Dudley, Madam Pomfrey, ever the educator, took the opportunity to admonish him about lab safety in potions. "The next time a potion calls for smelling, be sure to waft it like the good professor tells you, else you might end you like her. Poor thing."

He pressed her for details regarding the accident and, seeing a chance to reinforce her warning, the matron was most forthcoming. It turned out that Hermione was taking extra, mandatory lessons from Professor Snape in potions in preparation for the impending exams, starting with a revision of every single potion from the term. She had just started this regimen that very night and had leaned over her cauldron to smell of her boil-curing potion and passed out, planting her face firmly in the boiling contents of the cauldron.

"It will likely require the skills of a professional cosmetic medi-wizard. Perhaps Mr. Lestrange himself will come."

The mention of her husband and chief medi-wizard of St. Mungos, Bellatrix rejoined her nephew at his bedside as the matron went to retrieve a dose of boil-curing solution to administer to Draco and inquired as to the subject of their conversation.

On hearing of Hermione's need, she looked at Lucius and told him that she'd be back shortly with Rudy in tow and would he please inform the matron. With that, she strode to the headmaster's office to use his floo.

The witch in question returned with Draco's medicine, which he downed dutifully, despite the disgusting taste so common among medicinal potions. With that, his treatment was complete and he was free to return to his dorm, which he did, with his father escorting him. Dudley, on the other hand had a severe concussion and would be relegated to bedrest for the next day at least as the potions worked to repair the damage to his brain.

They made the long way to the dungeons which housed Slytherin house in silence. Companionable on the part of Lucius; exhausted on the part of his son. The pair parted with affectionate "Good night"s and a final ruffling of Draco's now-unladen hair. The common room was empty of all but a handful of couples too occupied to take notice of the diminutive first year that smelled of greasy smoke, for which Draco was immensely thankful. He made his way unmolested to the showers to remove the odor before dropping into his four-poster, dead to the world before his head even hit the pillow.

Meanwhile, Lucius headed to the headmaster's office, hoping to intercept his brother-and-sister-in-law before they made their way to the infirmary to assess Rudy's newest patient. He arrived just as they exited the stairway leading to the office. The trio exchanged salutations and went their separate ways after Lucius wished Rudolphus well in his endeavors for the poor muggleborn girl. He gave the password to the singularly hideous gargoyle that guarded the headmaster's office "Peppermount potty." "Perhaps the headmaster is actually mad, and not, as he would have us believe, merely extraordinarily eccentric." He thought as he mounted the spiral that lead to the office of the man about which he was currently contemplating.

Before he could knock, the headmaster called out "Come out!" causing Lucius to shake his head slightly as he opened the door. "Good evening, Albus." he said with tired cordiality.

The headmaster's response was to vigorously shake his head, then attempt to inquire after his son's health. "How is young Abraxas?"

"I'm sure my father is in excellent health." He replied, choosing to answer the question asked rather than the question intended.

"Hmm. Well, yes, good morning." Dumbledore returned, waving a hand dismissively as he turned to the paperwork littering his desk.

Correctly interpreting this as a farewell, Lucius grabbed a pinch of powder from the urn by the fireplace. The urn was very ornate and quite ancient-looking, Lucius was not alone in long suspecting that the piece was an incredibly valuable antiquity. However, he was in no position to rescue the item from its ignominious use and left it lie. Turning to the fire he cast the powder into the flame and called out "Malfoy manor!" With that, he stepped into the emerald flames and was gone.

As soon as he left, the headmaster withdrew an ornate mirror from his desk and called plaintively "Rubeus, my boy, I need you urgently." Everything was becoming much more focused and the contrast was sharply painful in his rapidly enfeebling mind.

Almost immediately, the fireplace washed green as the half-giant groundskeeper strode purposefully into the office. He carried with him a tea service that would have been highly incongruous at his small, wooden hut, but perfectly at home in the foyer of any of the nobility.

"Don't ye worry yer little head, Dumbl'dore. I'll have ye fixed up righ' as rain, ye'll see." The massive man intoned softly as he set about preparing the headmaster's nightcap.

After a few minutes, the kettle whistled and Hagrid began pouring the tea. This done, he checked on the headmaster, and, seeing his eyes closed, added a little something extra to the aged wizard's cup before handing it to the much older man. They quickly drank their tea, and the headmaster mercifully returned to his prior state of comfortable numbness.


End file.
